Subconscious Comfort
by The Butterfly Mistress
Summary: Au. Spoilers for Reichenbach and The Empty Hearse Mycroft managed to rescue Sherlock's body, but what about his mind? "His mental state was harder to gauge. Sherlock still interacted with his friends and family, but not the real them. He reacted to his figments of them. "
1. Subconscious Comfort

Spoilers for Reichenbach and The Empty House

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of its characters.

Unbetaed, all mistakes are my own. I'll admit I wrote this while half asleep, but I think I caught the majority of mistakes when proofreading...the same night.

I hope you enjoy!

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**Subconscious Comfort**

Temporary: lasting for only a limited period of time; not permanent. They had diagnosed his condition as temporary. They didn't clarify as to how long temporary was though, just that he would return to his normal self eventually. It was disconcerting and heartbreaking for the time being, watching such a strong man become a vulnerable child. His features remain the same; he still looks like the same old Sherlock he's known and missed. The same Sherlock that had insulted, amazed, and saved John and so many others. But…he isn't the same. The young detective's demeanor and expressions are different. His brain still functions in the same manner it always has, working out puzzles and information. His eyes still take in every detail, even the ones people try and hide, he just can't make out what it all means every time.

Two years after the man had jumped off that wretched hospital rooftop, to save all those who held a piece of his heart, he had been returned to them, alive. What more can they ask for? They were given the miracle that they prayed for…they didn't exactly specify more than being alive.

Mycroft had located his little brother after months of no communication with him. The man had then personally overseen the extraction of Sherlock from the grasps of the Serbian terrorists. According to the man who embodied the British government, the young genius had been held captive for months, anywhere from two to three months. Mycroft had an agent on the inside of the terrorist cell, keeping an eye on self-proclaimed sociopath, but was unable to interfere or pass on information before Mycroft had come to the rescue, as he himself was under suspicion. The information the young agent was able to give afterwards though was heart wrenching.

Sherlock's physical state told much of the happenings that occurred during his prolonged stay in the makeshift prison. Scars and burns marred his previously flawless body. X-rays showed healed and healing breaks. Fresh and old wounds littered and stained what was once porcelain skin. His long curls were matted with muck and grease, tangled into a rat's nest. His skin coated in dirt, blood, and other excrements that no one wanted to think about. Sherlock, once proud and somewhat arrogant had been reduced to such a sad and pitiful state; living in his own bodily fluids and filth.

His mental state was harder to gauge. Sherlock still interacted with his friends and family, but not the real them. He reacted to his figments of them. The agent alluded to what he saw during his boss's sibling's incarceration. The man told of Sherlock talking to people he could only see, people named John, Greg, Molly, Mrs Hudson, and others sometimes. Mostly to John, though Greg's presence seemed to visit frequently too. He would always tell them to hide when he heard his captors coming, reassuring them that Mycroft would be coming for them all soon. Soon they would all be safe and well, and home. Eventually though, the pain and infections started to get the better of the detective, the torment seemed to take a larger toll on him. The agent noticed a heartbreaking change in the captive man. Sherlock became more withdrawn, less prone to converse, though his feverish and delusional mutterings prevailed. He didn't react as much to the torture, seeming to hide within the confines and safety of his mind, until he would once again be left alone. He would cry out, and beg John to make it stop; plead with Greg to help make it better. His mind regressed into a state that could subconsciously comfort itself. Hands petting his hair, his face, rubbing his arms, wrapping around his body, fingers tracing patterns on the other hand. Lips allowing simple tunes and complex melodies pass through.

John sighed, rubbing his face to try and scrub away the tiredness and stress. He sat in an observation room with the others, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, and Mycroft, watching doctors trying to prod some sort of reaction from their not quite catatonic friend. They had patched his injuries and cleaned him up, and never once received recognition. He'd react to pain with a grimace or a hiss and go back to chattering with whomever he thought was visiting him at the time. They sedated him to set his left arm and cast it. He had curled up in himself as much as he could, his right hand moving up to pet his own locks, murmuring to Greg in appreciation for the comfort. There wasn't a dry eye, save for Mycroft, in either room.

Currently, Sherlock was awake and sitting up, gazing into nothingness. His doctor came out of the room, and spoke briefly to Mycroft before leaving. Mycroft looked like he'd aged quite a bit in the last few hours, but he remained his stoic self even so.

"Well, what did he say?" Lestrade and Molly glanced up at the pair, while Mrs. Hudson slept on. "Is Sherlock going to be alright?"

"They've done everything they can for him, John. Physically it will be a few months before he's up and about, moving without pain. He'll be taking medicines to help fight off infection and restore him to his original health."

"Yes, and mentally?" John's brow rose as he waited with an impatient air. "Did they say whether or not he was starting to come back to?"

Mycroft turned towards the glass again, his eyes searching his brother's face, "They say that he reacts to different stimuli, and they feel his 'regression' is temporary. The doctors believe the more he interacts with someone and begins to feel safe outside of his mind, the more he should revert back to normal."

"Well, what is going to be done with him then?" Lestrade asked, his voice laced with the tiredness his eyes were trying to blink away. "If the doctors can't do anything else for him, I mean…surely you don't mean to leave him here…"

"You said he needs to feel safe, where better to send him than home?" interrupted Molly. "We could all visit him and perhaps bring him back out of his shell. He won't need the imaginary us if he's got the real us, right?"

"I'm a doctor; I could take care of him, Mycroft. You could supply me with the necessary tools and medication."

"He does usually respond better to you, Dr. Watson…my presence would just further set him off I believe. He's always been petty." Mycroft grimaced before nodding towards his assistant. "My dear, could you make the necessary arrangements for Sherlock to go to 221B Baker Street?" Anthea's fingers flew across her phone as she left to do her boss's bidding. Mycroft followed after her, but stopped short at the door, "I will be by to check on him tomorrow, Dr. Watson. Do take care of him." With that, the British government was off.

"I suppose I should be off myself," stated Molly. She sent a side-glance towards the room that held Sherlock, before letting it slide to Mrs. Hudson, slumped in a chair and snoring away. "I could take Mrs. Hudson home, if you'd like John… I mean, if you wanted to stay…not that you have to, I just thou-"

"It's fine, Molly," John halted the pathologist's nervous ramblings, hands rubbing through his hair. "That would be great actually; if you're sure you won't mind."

"Not at all," she assured. Molly roused the landlady from her nap and headed home, making sure John promised to call if there was any change, leaving John and Greg to keep watch.

~SH~ ~SH~ ~SH~

Sherlock stumbled gracelessly off his bed, hobbling about towards a corner and dropping unceremoniously into a heap on the floor. He ached all over, but the pain wasn't as intense as before. He examined his arms and legs, taking note of the lack of grime and fresh smell of cleaner, as well as the bandages and his cast.

"It's a new game, John," he grumbled at his friend. "They must be up to something; trying to lull me into thinking I'm safe. Well, they can try as they like, I won't be fooled!"

His gaze lifted up to John's face as he huddled in his corner, searching his eyes and finding nothing but the brotherly love he had come to depend on. He rested his heavy on his friend's shoulder, taking in scent and allowing it to fill him, calm him.

"Perhaps it is a new game, Sherlock, or maybe Mycroft has come and gotten us out of there. You know how he is, he won't bother to show up for a while yet, if it is him," John murmured into the genius's curls.

"I don't think he's coming, John… He would give me some sort of signal, to let me know it was him. I have not received one," Sherlock said, voice void of emotion, as if he was just stating fact.

Greg sat cattycorner to the two and brushed a hand through the tatted, brown locks. "Don't give up yet, kiddo, he'll come," the DI assured. "Just sleep. We'll still be here when you wake." He continued to sooth the battered mind underneath his hands, even after the form it belonged to slumped slightly from unconsciousness after sighing a "thank you, da- Greg".

~SH~ ~SH~ ~SH~

John and Greg fixated on the delusional detective. They watched with bemusement as he teetered off of the hospital bed and tottered over to a corner of the small, square room. The two exhausted gentlemen observed their friend examine his freshly bandaged and medicated body, hoping against all hopes that it would bring him to reality; he had been rescued, he was safe.

They were dismayed to hear Sherlock's gravelly voice come to the wrong conclusion. "It's a new game, John," he grumbled to himself. "They must be up to something; trying to lull me into thinking I'm safe. Well, they can try as they like, I won't be fooled!"

Sherlock lifted his face somewhat to observe something at his left side. A small smile graced his lips as his head tilted to the side. The genius detective breathed in deeply, allowing the air to flow back out, slow and precise; he wrapped his casted arm securely around himself, as much was physically possible.

Sherlock gave a hum as he tightened his grip around his midriff, gentle fingers brushing over emaciated ribs. "I don't think he's coming, John… He would give me some sort of signal, to let me know it was him. I have not received one," Sherlock said, hopeless and resigned.

John gasped in horror at the conversation Sherlock was holding with the imaginary him, his fist pressed tightly to his mouth, to hold in what, he didn't know. His heart ached to go into his best friend and hold him, tell him he was here for real and everything would be ok. That as long as John had him, he was safe, but his legs refused to budge, his eyes wouldn't turn away. He was paralyzed to watch the scene unfold, helpless to right the wrongs.

Lestrade wasn't faring much better, blinking rapidly to fight off the tears that were desperate to break free; his hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. The DI wanted nothing more than to march in and grab the young man he'd come to think of as a sort of son and hold him close and never let him go. If he wasn't sure Mycroft had ended the men who had done this to his little brother, Greg may have marched out and taken care of it himself, and made it much less quick and painless. He'd known the young man for what? Five years? Seven years? He'd been there for the drugs, the withdrawal, the relapses, the achievements and successes, the good, the bad, and the ugly. He'd dare anyone to even suggest he'd leave now.

Eyes closed, Sherlock angled his head slightly to nuzzle his own hand as it petted his hair. As he drifted off into a fitful rest, a contented sigh passed through chapped lips, "thank you, da- Greg."

It was painful to watch Sherlock comforting himself, even if in his mind it was his friends there for him. Maybe that is what made it so painful? Greg felt like someone had grabbed a hold of his heart and was squeezing the life out of it. Sherlock had almost called him dad! More than ever he needed to be there for his boy, a man he had helped save from himself when he was just entering true adulthood.

The air had been knocked from John, he was sure of it, he needed air, but he couldn't remember how to breathe! His heart was breaking in two. It was just too much. He had grieved for his friend and begged for him to come back to him, but he didn't mean like this! He wouldn't wish this on anyone, least of all Sherlock.

He couldn't hold himself back any longer, the blond doctor rushed through the observation room door that entered into the detective's hospital room and went to his friend's side. He felt Lestrade enter behind him and saw him kneel beside him. Together they managed to ease Sherlock up and half carry, half drag the tortured body back to the bed. He whimpered and groaned as he was jostled about. Once placed upon the soft mattress his quiet mutterings became more incessant. "No…no, please, let me back onto my cot. I don't like this one, it's too soft. Tell 'em, John. Tell 'em it's going to swallow me up." Sherlock continued to complain and whimper, tossing and turning about on the soft, white bed, trying to escape its confines and the discomfort it was causing him.

"Shh, shush now, Sherlock," John tried to soothe, intertwining their hands and giving it a squeeze, using his other to dance across the man's gaunt cheek. "Everything is going to be alright; I've got you now."

Lestrade followed suit with carding fingers through the curly locks, gently kneading the scalp with a comforting pressure. The DI began to hum, a song his own pa would sing to him during his youth, letting the soft noise lull his detective into a comfortable sleep.

As Sherlock curled into himself, casted arm wrapping back around his torso, the other hand coming up to fist the pillow near his head, face nuzzling into it, John and Lestrade vowed to themselves that they would do everything in their power to undo the damage done. To be there for their broken friend and make sure that he never doubted how much he was loved and cared for. To heck with his "high-functioning sociopath" proclamation, no one that really knows him has ever bought that *** anyhow. Sherlock would be okay. He may never be the same as he was, but his friends…no his family, would make sure he would be just fine.

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I hope you enjoyed! Please leave a review with your thoughts.


	2. Night Terrors

**A/N: I am thankful that this story was enjoyed. You asked for more, so here it is! I hope you enjoy it.**

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**Night Terrors**

True to his word, Mycroft had Sherlock transported back to Baker Street the same night. Once there, John had guided Mycroft's people to lay Sherlock on the couch until a better place could be sorted. John was grateful to the older brother for thinking of tidying up the flat too. He had been so focused on what was transpiring at the hospital and squashing down grief and disbelief that his friend was back, that he hadn't thought ahead at all.

Presumably, Mrs Hudson was downstairs asleep, understandable, it was two in the morning. Lestrade had offered to stay and help out, but John had waved him off, telling the DI to get some rest and come back tomorrow. They were all knackered; they all needed some rest, because tomorrow brought on a new challenge that would more than likely prove to be harrowing and taxing.

John maneuvered around the flat as if hadn't been absent for the last two years, his brain quickly supplying where everything would be. He methodically went through the motions of making a cup of tea, the normalcy doing wonders for his nerves. If he didn't stop to remember the past several hours, it would almost be like the fall had never happened. However, it did happen, and things weren't normal, not even close, and he was just so exhausted. Slow, silent steps made way to his chair, where he sank heavily into its depths. The steaming cuppa warm and solid in his hands soothed his grief ridden soul, if even for a moment. It didn't take long for the events of the day, years really, to catch up to the blond doctor, and soon he was drifting off into a world that wasn't so full of chaos.

~SH~SH~SH~

A familiar scent wafted through his nostrils, from where did he know that smell? It certainly wasn't one he was used to smelling in this forsaken heap of misery. Where was he? Why is the floor so…cushiony? Was this some sort of new torture? If so, he'd agree it was quite awful. Even worse was that he didn't know what to expect next. At least with outright brutality he knew what was coming next, he knew how to cope with these idiots' predictability.

Sherlock's ears perked at a gentle snore careening through the stillness. He squinted his eyes open to discern where the noise was coming from, but couldn't make out much in the darkness. It was quiet, but it was near. The sentry must feel his prisoner is too weak to be a threat, too disoriented to escape. Sherlock smirked at that thought, 'truly morons; can't even be 'good' terrorists!' The injured detective risked sitting up, taking great pains to suppress groaning. No need to alert them I'm awake, and therefore they should be too. Should he risk trying to find a way out too? If he did escape, he could get everyone to safety, though Mycroft may be a bit miffed he'd left without a word to him…on the other hand, if he didn't manage it, it may mean worse torture, perhaps death… and not just to him either, it would mean the death of them all. Still, wouldn't death be better for them than being stuck in this metaphorical hades?

"John? Greg?" Sherlock called out, his voice barely above a whisper. "Come out, please. The guard is asleep."

John and Greg came around to crouch before their friend. Even in the darkness, he would know those faces anywhere: kind eyes, gentle smiles. Their presence lifted his spirits and reaffirmed that they needed to risk getting out; he couldn't let them rot away here without hope. He reached out and clasped a hand each and gave a weary smile.

"I think it's time we get out of here, what do you say?"

A light hand was placed upon his knee, giving a quick squeeze. Greg and John glanced at one another before nodding reluctantly towards the detective. "Are you sure you'll able to move, mate?" John's doctor nature always worried for his friend.

"We've been given a chance to go for it, John. What choice do I have?" Sherlock trailed off as thoughts of his friends lying broken or dead passed through his brain. He shook his head, sending throbs of pain throughout, from his frontal lobe to the occipital lobe, and all the lobes in between. His wince did not go unnoticed.

"No one is going to think less of you, if we just wait it out, Sunshine. Mycroft may be on his way yet."

"And what if he isn't, Greg?" Sherlock whispered, anger and fear ever present. "What if he can't find us? Are we meant to just wait to die? I don't know how much longer you all will stay hidden! I can't bear the thought of… I won't let you end up like me. You have so much to live for."

"You do too, mate. Don't start thinking like that, or our plans of mayhem will go awry before they even begin." A wink followed by a light punch to the shoulder. Count on John to add humor with his reassurance and sentiment.

Sherlock managed to rise up off his too soft bedstead, though remained unsteady on his feet. His good arm up and stretched out and his friends behind him, the genius detective started his trek to freedom with small, wobbly footsteps.

If his captor's plan was unhinge and disorient him, it was working. Perhaps this torture was better planned out than what he had initially gave them credit for. He couldn't make out shapes in the blackness, just darker blobs. If there were any windows in this new room, they must have something blocking out all light. He wasn't far from where he had started before his foot slammed against something very solid. Sharp knives entered his bare foot, working their way into his ankle. Already quite unbalanced, this unexpected pain sent him spiraling over. He toppled down onto the floor and into something sharp, caused by what he assumed was what he had slammed against before, hitting his already battered shoulder and the side of his skull. That was going to hurt loads, later. His fall had not been quiet in the least, he is fairly sure he heard glass shatter… Had his stupidity given them away?

His friends hovered over him, asking him questions he couldn't quite make out, his ears were ringing. Their looks of concern starting to make him feel the pain more; all so stupid, clearly a psychological thing, just as a child won't notice he scraped his knee until the mother starts to coo at him. Tears spring to his eyes, a surge of anger rushes about at his body's betrayal, at their potential plot of escape being foiled. Anger and fear swell deep within him, and he is helpless to fight against it. He clenches his eyes tight, not to just hold back tears, but in some hopes that if he couldn't see the bad guys, maybe they wouldn't see him either. A childish tactic, he knew better, but he couldn't stop it either. He had to try.

"You alright, Sherlock?" Sherlock cringed at the volume John's voice carried. Didn't the man realize that they were still in danger of being discovered? If the racket from his fall hadn't already alerted the enemy yet, his words would.

He opened his eyes and looked around. They were surrounded! Oh why didn't he see this for the ruse it was… his worst fears were about to be realized. He turned to where his two friends awaited him, held by guards, they had been caught! There was no chance for them to run and hide while he took the punishment; there would be no way to save them from this horrible existence

He turned towards his captor, greyish-blue oceans meeting dark abysses, and pleaded, begged, "Please, let them go! Please! His voice hoarse and croaky with pure panic, "I take the blame! I fully accept punishment, theirs too!"

"Sherlock, no!" his friends called out, desperately struggling against those that had seized them.

Pressure on both his shoulders brought his beseeching to a halt, a firm grasp that had the poor man slumping in defeat. No leniency would be shown, least of all to him. Perhaps they considered his friends' death merciful just as much as torture to him. His head bowed low, his form tucked into himself, taut and ready for the blow he knew would be coming.

~SH~SH~SH~

John had always been a light sleeper, which was very helpful during the war, but a pain in the *** when you lived with the discourteous insomniac that was Sherlock Holmes. He had been awoken by mild explosions, crashing objects, music and racket from a violin, being jerked out of bed for cases, and that didn't include his own nightmares and night terrors that awoke him. So when he suddenly jerked awake, he wasn't very surprised.

The doctor took a moment to reorient himself, hoping everything that had occurred was just one of his bad dreams. He switched on the lamp beside his chair and waited for his eyes to adjust; his hopes were dashed upon closer inspection of the calamity in the flat. As soon as his eyes landed on the cause of the chaos, his heart dropped down into his stomach. He was up before his brain could register that he would need to proceed with caution; that he should probably call for back up.

Sherlock was on the floor, cowering in fear and what would appear dread, clearly suffering from new injuries and pain from jolting the old ones. His chocolate orbs swept across the room to make sure no one else had joined them to have caused his friend to try and walk about. The lamp lay shattered on the hard wood floor, pieces embedded in porcelain skin and tangled in dark curls. He would need to use tweezers to get those out, and somehow get Sherlock in the shower to clean him up a bit too. For the time being, off the floor and not trembling would be a good start.

"You alright, Sherlock?" John asked with caution, ready bounce back if his friend became violent. Sherlock flinched, so John lowered his voice a decibel, "Sherlock?"

Eyes sprang open wide and he searched the room frantically. When his gaze landed on the doorway to the kitchen the man began to panic, his respiration increased to a point where John was worried he was going to hyperventilate. Just as quick as they had opened, the same eyes turned toward John, desperate.

The man before him trembled like a child with a phobia of a needle about to get a vaccination. "Please, let them go!" Deep baritone voice, pitched high with terror, turning into a guttural cry. "Please! I take the blame! I fully accept punishment, theirs too!"

He's a doctor! Even if he's not a psychologist, he's studied enough of it to where he should know how to handle this situation! But he doesn't… He just needs Sherlock to calm down, to go back to how he was, to not be this, this, whatever he was.

Carefully, he steps closer to the desperate detective, like one would approach an injured fawn to try and help it. He places his hands on both shoulders, giving a strong squeeze in hopes that it would bring Sherlock back around. If anything it made the situation worse. Whatever Sherlock is expecting, he is no longer trying to fight against it. He's bowed his head and hunched in on himself, his muscles taut, as if readying himself.

He withdrew one hand to call in reinforcements, he didn't know what do, just knew he couldn't deal with it alone. He was too wound up himself to think clearly, all he really knew was that somehow, he would fix this. He just had to make this better. For all of their sakes.

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**Please let me know your thoughts. Again, I hope you enjoyed it and I appreciate your reviews.**


	3. Hope Dawns

**A/N:** I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. I'm not sure how I feel about it yet.

Still unbetaed.

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**Hope Dawns**

He blinked, to keep the blood oozing from the laceration on his skull out of his eye. John took note that he was also favoring his left foot, as the right appendage was sporting a large bruise, and possibly a few broken toes. He remained slumped over in defeat, silent tears streaming in acceptance of the fate that awaited him, for them. Nothing John said or did seemed to get through to the man. He had done everything short of grabbing his friend and shaking sense back into him. The doctor was sure that Sherlock's heart had to be racing, as his breath seemed to be coming in short, deep gasps. He refused to think of Sherlock releasing or holding back sobs. His own heart threatened to give out on him every time a whimper would escape those chaffed, pink lips.

He was incredibly grateful for the door opening and the entrance of both Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes. John didn't expect Greg to be able to get through to the younger man any more than he had been able to, however, John himself, could certainly use the moral support. Mycroft was hopefully going to be the key; Sherlock didn't believe that his brother was with him in that terrorist camp.

Mycroft didn't bother to say a word to either men, he went straight to his little brother and knelt before him, gentle hands grasping the delusional man's wrists firm, but light. Greg on the other hand, went to John's side, already blinking back treacherous tears and emotions. He remained silent, but gave a reassuring pat and squeeze to the doctor's shoulder. They waited and watched, anxious and hopeful, that somehow Mycroft could awaken their friend from his nightmare.

"'Lock, can you hear me, brother mine?" His voice tender and placid shocked the other two men. "Sherlock, you have been rescued; you are at 221B Baker Street, with John Watson and Greg Lestrade. Now, you must stop this nonsense and answer me. Are you in there, Sherlock?"

Endless silence, it couldn't have been more than two minutes, but it felt like a lifetime, before a hesitant recognition flashed across battered features. "My?" Confused and doubtful, but recognition! It felt like Christmas, as Sherlock would say. Oh, but why couldn't it be so simple…

~SH~SH~SH~

Why were they waiting, did they mean for him suffer more through anticipation? He was known for being heartless, but he didn't think even he could pull this off. It was downright cruel. They shouted at him, but his racing thoughts tuned out their words; they grabbed him, squeezed him, but he ignored their touch. Nothing they could physically do would ever bother him again. Not so long as they held his friends. They could beat him, burn him, break him, pull out his fingernails, or drive him to the brink of insanity…none of it would matter. Why should he care? He only fought against it for his friends.

"'Lock, can you hear me, brother mine?"

Wait! That voice, those words…surely not. It couldn't be. Mycroft wasn't coming; he probably figured him dead and moved on. Even so, his brother hadn't spoken to him with blatant affection since he was a child proclaiming to be a pirate captain, trying to get his older brother to be his first mate. His captors did a good imitation of that time, good thing Sherlock knew better. While the siblings loved each other, they were not close and certainly weren't emotional with one another. Though, he would admit, Mycroft did have a point, caring obviously wasn't an advantage… look where it got him. Look where it got his friends. Still, this existence would have been bearable, if only those he cared about were able to live in safety with hope of a future. They could live without him, even if he could not, ultimately, live without them.

"Sherlock," There's his name in that voice again, "you have been rescued; you are at 221B Baker Street, with John Watson and Greg Lestrade." No! They can't have gotten their names yet…he hadn't heard his friends being questioned, and he himself certainly hadn't told his captors anything about them. "Now, you must stop this nonsense and answer me. Are you in there, Sherlock?" Well, that certainly sounded like his older brother… Was it possible that Mycroft had finally come to save them? That he could rescue his friends before they succumbed to the same misfortunes?

"My?" Cautious, suspicious, this could easily be a ploy to lure him out of his mind palace; another ruse to gain his attention and make him watch his loved ones suffer. He shouldn't have spoken, he was being stupid, the stupid little boy Mycroft always claimed him to be. But he did so long for his brother to be here.

Eyes squinted, head tilted, grey-blue orbs searched frantically for his brothers imposing form. So much haze to fight through, he didn't understand. Why would they still be surrounded by enemies if his brother was in the room? This scene didn't make sense. He shook his head, his body displaying his agitation, it didn't help, it hurt, hurt so much. The pain caused a thicker fog; he sank further into his mind. It didn't hurt as much there. He couldn't forget, but he didn't have to face it either.

Must think logically, if Mycroft were here, they may still be surrounded, but the debauched group would be on the floor, a bullet hole neatly placed right between the eyebrows of each and every one of the wretched souls. Conclusion one: Mycroft isn't here; they have somehow manipulated his voice to gain his trust and manipulate him. Conclusion two: Mycroft had been captured also and is being used against his little brother. Scratch that second one, that wouldn't happen, his big brother would never turn against him. As much as it may cost the man, he would take care and protect Sherlock. Conclusion one it is. Solution: Ignore voice.

~SH~SH~SH~

Mycroft saw the life enter his little brother's eyes, a war occurring within himself. To trust or not to trust…that was the question. He was unsurprised, yet oddly annoyed when he saw which had won that battle. Almost as quickly as it had come, the light had died out. Tortured eyes glazed back over as Sherlock hid further within his mind palace. He hated to admit, but even the British government was at a loss for this problem.

"Well?" John asked, hopeful, but tactfully avoiding look down at the retreated man before them. "Can you get to him?"

"He recognized you, Mycroft. Surely that's a good sign," Greg equally as excited about this prospect, didn't hesitate to observe his son-figure. A frown formed, the wrinkles more pronounced around the curves of his mouth. "Why did he stop talking? Why did he return back to the state he was in?"

Mycroft grimaced, dreading to tell them of his failure. His gaze lingered on Sherlock, perturbed by seeing his brother's hand come up and dance across his cheek before entangling it inside his long curls giving them mild tugs. He was going to need a haircut soon. Well, if anything positive can be found in these circumstances, it's that Sherlock will be much more complacent for the time being. They could care for him without much worry.

"I regret to inform you, that I lost the battle of trust."

"Must you always speak in riddles?" John was reaching his rope's end. He briefly entertained the notion of beating the man over the head, using his umbrella to add insult to injury.

"He doesn't trust that you're actually here talking to him," Greg heaved a sigh, rubbing his hands over his face. He sank into Sherlock's chair, tired and emotionally exhausted and it wasn't even four am!

"John, I think it best you tend to his wounds, and get him back to bed. I do not believe he will be giving you any trouble."

"Yes. Of course." John made his way up the stairs to his room, grabbing his medical kit from his wardrobe, before making his way back.

Greg and Mycroft had managed to manhandle the detective to the small bathroom, turning the lights to low when Sherlock nearly closed his eyes altogether at the offending brightness. They sat him on the toilet and filled a bowl full of warm water, in preparation of cleaning the head wound. They would worry about a shower tomorrow, when they were all mildly refreshed.

Ignoring the ever growing tightness in his chest, John cleaned the cut and bandaged it, making a mental note to ice the area to reduce the swelling. Sherlock would have quite the shiner in a few hours. There wasn't much that could be done for his broken toes, other than try and keep Sherlock off his feet and allow them to heal. No doubt they would throb for a few days. The hard part was going to be getting paracetamol in him. Greg went to fetch the pain killers as John finished up. Mycroft remained present, but only observed, staying out of the way.

"Sherlock, its John," John rubbed small circles with his thumb across the back of the detective's hand. "If you can hear me, mate, I need you to open your mouth. I am going to give you some a little something to help with your fever and the pain your experiencing." He paused for a sign of comprehension, but received none, " Sherlock?"

Said man did not show any coherent signs of acknowledgement that he had been spoken to, let alone that he understood what was about to happen. John sighed, long-suffering, and placed the pill between loose lips, hoping that Sherlock would do the rest. Of course, no such luck; that wasn't unexpected at all! Deft fingers pulled out the unwanted medicine and dropped it to the floor. Greg tried the next time, tilting water into Sherlocks mouth following the pill, in hopes that reflex would cause Sherlock to swallow. Again, hand came up, pill came out, water not intentionally swallowed, had Sherlock sputtering to expel liquid from his airway. Mycroft rolled his eyes at the troublesome young man, and shoved the DI and doctor out of the way. He took the pill in one hand and pried open his brother's mouth with the other. He shoved the medicine in and quickly spilled water in to follow and proceeded to force Sherlock's mouth and nose closed. It didn't take very long for the paracetamol to be swallowed. Sherlock's shoulders sagged in defeat.

"You've probably just traumatized him worse!" John shouted in anger, completely missing his best friend's flinch.

"He was being petty, John. Now he can experience some relief."

"Alright, both of you just shut up and let's get him to bed." Greg sighed and rubbed at his tired eyes.

John and Greg hoisted the broken body up and dragged his limp form into his bedroom, easing him onto the soft bed. Once situated properly, covers were tucked around Sherlock, before they brought down John's mattress and set it up in the corner of the detective's room. They decided on taking shifts to keep an eye on the man, making sure another adventure was halted.

"Well, it seems you gentlemen have things under control, I'll leave you to it then."

"You're leaving?" John asked, incredulous. "You've just watched your brother have a mini meltdown, and you're just going to leave after further traumatizing him?"

"Technically, you saw my brother have a meltdown, doctor; I saw him put his guard back up. Besides, I am leaving him in the most capable hands I know, for handling him. Do take care, Dr. Watson. I will try and find a way to remedy the situation, without further "breaking" him." A mock bow and he was out the door, leaving John and Greg to flounder about, not knowing what to do any more now than when the events had first transpired.

~SH~

Despite his better judgment, John took first watch, sitting in his chair that he'd dragged from the sitting room. Greg's roaring snores echoed around the room. He was exhausted, but John kept a faithful eye over the self-proclaimed sociopath. If he hadn't known better, he would say he was keeping watch over a corpse. Sherlock's skin was pale against the white sheets, and his body stayed straight and stock still, not even a twitch. The doctor momentarily wondered if the man was even asleep, or if he was just thinking, waiting for his keepers to both drift off to dreamland. It _was_ a struggle stay awake.

It had been a couple hours since putting the younger man to bed, light was beginning to filter in through the heavy curtains Sherlock had in his room to block out the majority of the sun's rays. The room was lit enough to make out forms and furniture. Sounds wafted through thin walls, the busyness of London always a comforting noise; not too loud, but the background noise spread a warmth throughout John, it was home. Lulled with warmth and safety, and the sense of home, droopy eyes fell shut, and a small smile spreading across a weary face, and John was swept away into a blissful state of unawareness.

~SH~SH~SH~

A second snore joined the raucous one before it, this one soft and smooth. The tense figure, relaxed into the uncomfortable softness of his presumably medical bed. The man must be closer to death than he thought if they were trying to fix him back up, withholding his punishment. Maybe that's why. Perhaps his next beating would be the last one if they didn't allow his body time to heal first. He didn't feel like he was in danger of death though, no matter how much he wished it would claim him.

Well, if they wanted him comfortable, they shouldn't have placed him on this insufferable mattress! With both minders out cold, he was free to roam his new cell. As long as he wasn't escaping, surely they wouldn't care. His captors did leave two incompetent idiots to keep an eye on him. They couldn't prove he was searching for his friends anyhow. John had long since told him that Molly and Mrs. Hudson had been set free, when they were found useless to the cause. Where they had been released and if they had made it back alive, he didn't know and didn't enjoy contemplating it. He'd missed them, but kept hope that they were alive and well and moving on. He had had John and Greg still with him then too, which both eased and worried him at the same time. How could he have been so foolish to risk their lives, of all lives to risk!

Sherlock sat up and observed his surroundings; it looked like any standard terrorist, medical bay. White walls, a bed in the center of the room, equipment about. The only oddities being that he wasn't restrained and there was a cot with a sleeping occupant, sentry number 1, and a chair, where sentry number 2 slept; there was also a second door, leading to who knows where. Maybe his friends were in there. Well, while the warden is away, the Sherlock will play.

Very aware of his injured foot, Sherlock carefully climbed off the bed, being as quiet as he could be. He limped over to the second door, grimacing from the pain mere walking caused. He stood there fidgeting, playing with his sleeve cuff, teasing his lips between teeth. Should he check what's in the next room? Would he regret it?

Ears perked up at a gunshot behind him. Eyes widened, heart sped up, respiration increased, catching at every inhale. Muscles tightened as adrenaline coursed through his veins. Fight or Flight? Another bullet sprang from its chamber; decision made. Sherlock jumped, flung the door open and flew inside the darkened room. He couldn't see where he was running and soon enough his shins hit something solid. He was hurdled into something hard and ice cold, where he quickly huddled low in the corner of his new safe haven. While his sanctuary sent chills to his bones, he found he rather preferred it to the other places he had been kept. He no longer heard the barking of weapons, perhaps he was safe here. He could find John and Greg later; he would be of no use to them dead after all, for now he could rest. He was too sore to move for the time being anyhow. 'But….what if those bullets weren't meant for me?'

~SH~SH~SH~

Greg awoke slowly, unsure as to what had interrupted his peaceful slumber. He felt refreshed and ready to begin a new day. Looking about, that was a good thing, because it was clearly after lunch. 'I wonder why John didn't wake me earlier.' His inquiry was answered upon hearing a soft snore filling the room. The DI stretched and pursed his lips as bone crackled. He was getting too old to be sleeping on the floor.

A pitiful whine, barely heard over London's city life. Was there a puppy in the house? No, there's no way any animal would be allowed in this environment; just his mind playing tricks on him in his middle age. The detective glanced towards John and gave a chuckle at the sight before. The doctor was sprawled out in the chair, legs over one side and head on the other, his left arm hung limply over the front. It looked like a rather painful position to sleep in. No doubt the good man would have a kink in his neck and a cramp in his shoulder. He should probably wake him up and get the day started. They would need to get Sherlock bathed and fed at the very least, before too long. Speaking of the genius, Lestrade's eyes wandered over to the empty bed. Empty?! "Oh, ***!"

John jerked awake. "Huh, what is it Greg?" the man slurred still half asleep.

Another whine, insistent whimpers. 'Please no… Please, please let a dog be loose in the flat.' Greg rushed out of the room searching for the source of the cries, praying all along the way that it wasn't what he knew it was. He searched the sitting room, the kitchen, and then entered the bathroom. No point in searching upstairs yet, he'd doubt he'd been able to hear the poor wretch if he were that far away.

The sobs grew louder as he approached the lavatory; a disheveled John came out to meet him, now very alert to the problem. Greg entered the room followed by John, turning the light on just enough to make out the figure huddled at the back end of the bathtub. So, this was how they were going to start their day… Pushing back their thoughts and emotions, they couldn't break down every time, nothing would ever be accomplished; the two went to work. Greg sent John to make tea and lunch while he set out to calm Sherlock down. He set on the edge of the porcelain washing basin, and bent over to rest a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Doleful eyes shot up, to meet this newcomer; he flinched away, but didn't have any more to escape to. The icy glare, meant to frighten him was diminished by the pain and misery lurking underneath. For a moment, Greg thought he saw a flash of recognition, but it passed so fast that he was sure it must have been a trick of the light.

"Sherlock, are you ok, son?" What a stupid question, he could clearly see he wasn't fine at all.

A furtive nod responded, a mistrustful gaze watching his every move. Lestrade sighed, pulled some tissue off the roller and began to wipe away the snot and salt water stuck to the young man's face, ignored. He was allowed to touch him without being cringed away from, but it didn't look like Sherlock was still with him. He looked far off in his own little world, he probably was.

John came through and handed him a cuppa, which he accepted, grateful. Worried eyes passed over the huddled form and then returned to Lestrade in askance. Greg shook his head.

"I've got eggs on the stove, and some toast…"

"Sounds good, how are we going to get it into him?"

"I'm not completely sure, but maybe we should clean him up first."

The DI nodded and went to find some fresh, comfortable clothes. No way were they going to put him in one of his suits. He heard John talking to Sherlock, explaining his every action, Lestrade assumed the doctor was trying to wrangle some of the filthy garments off of the man. He was grateful he wasn't in that position. John being a doctor had seen more of his fair share of the human body, he didn't care anymore, and living with Sherlock, and his lack of modesty, there was no doubt John had already been scarred for life. He would rather allow the detective to have his modesty and maintain his dignity as best he could; which is why he knocked to alert John he had found a suitable pair of pajamas and underclothes.

"Come in Greg, I kept his boxers on him."

The DI still blushed with embarrassment that soon turned in a blush of rage at seeing Sherlock's mutilated skin. He slammed the clothes down on the sink before he thought not to, immediately thankful that the soft material didn't make much sound. Sherlock's modesty had not improved in his time away; he still appeared apathetic to his body being on display. Greg hoisted up the old trousers and shirt, to throw away and threw the pants in the laundry. Those were salvageable.

The water started up and a shriek filled the flat, followed by what sounded like a struggle. "Sherlock? Sherlock! Calm down, mate. No one here is going to hurt you."

Lestrade barged in as Sherlock's loud yells quietened down to a repetitive murmuring of "no". Sherlock was curled in the corner of the entrance, hands tangled in curls and John was crouched in front of him with his hands outstretched. He was surprised he hadn't hit John with the door. "What happened?"

"I don't know, I think the water set him off." John rubbed a hand through his short hair and rolled his eyes up in exasperation. "Gosh Greg, what did they do to him?"

Ignoring the comment, Lestrade knelt down in front of his friend. "Sherlock, whatever they did to you, it won't be done here. You need get that muck off of you, kiddo." Sherlock looked up at that, finally lucid eyes meeting the DI's chocolate brown. They widened in disbelief, "No, no, you're not here, this isn't real, they killed you. All my fault. No. No, not real."

"No, Sherlock, no one's touched me. I'm here, I'm alive, I'm real." Lestrade assured the man while laughing in relief.

"They had you surrounded, you and John! They took you away from me…I heard gunshots!"

"Sherlock, I don't know what you think you saw or heard, but it wasn't real…" John tried to help, but was ignored as if he wasn't there at all.

Lestrade nodded, "John's right. We were never kidnapped to begin with, Sherlock. It was your mind making it up, as some sort of coping mechanism."

"John's alive?" Sherlock tested, cautious, but hopeful.

"Yes, Sherlock, he's right here." Lestrade pointed to the figure beside him who looked eager and relieved.

The detective's brow furrowed and his eyes looked in John's direction in confusion. "Huh?" Eyes turned back to Greg and then to John, only to settle back on the DI.

John's shoulders sagged in disappointment. "I'll go make a call to Mycroft. See if he'll let you clean him up a bit, yeah?" The doctor left, frustrated and hurt, that his best friend would see Lestrade before him.

The DI frowned, but nodded. "Come on Sherlock, let's get you freshened up, okay?" He gripped Sherlock under the arms and hefted him up, allowing the detective to lean in on him while they maneuvered back to the tub. At the sight of the water filled basin, Sherlock tensed and halted, causing Lestrade to stumble a bit. "Sherlock?" He looked at genius and realized with dread that his time of lucidity was quickly coming to an end. "Sherlock, it's just water, it isn't going to hurt you. I won't allow it. Can you hear me, Sherlock?

Distrustful glare aimed at him, "I don't believe you. You just want to drown me…or freeze me to death. I won't let you!" He tried to pull away, but the grip on him was firm and he was too weak to break free.

"Sherlock, the water is warm, and I won't put your head under…we'll use a cup to wash your hair." Heartbroken…the sorry souls had tried to kill his boy, just to save him and repeat the process. "See, look, the water isn't even filled to half way."

Sherlock's demeanor never changed, but he glanced at the blue liquid. Mouth shut tight and body firmly planted, he shook his head. Lestrade heaved a heavy sigh and stepped into the water, the liquid sloshing up the sides of the tub and his legs. He beckoned over to the stubborn detective, "Come on, lad, see, waters nice and warm. I would let you take a shower, Sherlock, but you can't get your cast wet." He tugged at the young man's arm, pulling him off balance enough for him to have to readjust, closer to the detective inspector. Eyes clouded over again, body posture guarded, all clarity gone. Sherlock fought against Greg's hold on him.

He was finally maneuvered into the bathtub, Greg soaked in the process, sat down on the side with his feet on the inside. He'd lost Sherlock to his mind palace or nightmares again, he wasn't sure which, but he became unresponsive. A thumb brushing his casted hand, was the only movement Sherlock provided. The DI managed to wash the grime off the skin, taking special care of the marred bits, especially the fresher ones. He then moved on to the detective's hair, liberally applying both the shampoo and conditioner, covering the man's eyes with his hand before rinsing the substances off. The water was an off brown when they were done. He quickly drained the basin and used a fluffy, blue towel to dry the genius off. He'd wait for John to return to redress him; he'd need help with that. It wouldn't be easy to balance a near catatonic man that was easily one or two heads taller than him.

It may not have lasted, but for a few short moments, Sherlock seen and spoke with clarity. It was a blessing. It would be worth all the heartache and struggle in the world, to see his boy back to himself. It may take a while, but eventually, everything would be okay again. For now, he'd take the brief moments he could get.

* * *

**Thank you for all the support and reviews. You make my day!**


	4. Touch and Go

**A/N:** I hope you guys enjoy this chapter!

Still unbetaed.

Any and all constructive criticism and thoughts welcome!

* * *

**Touch and Go**

It had been two days since the bathing incident, and they had managed to get him washed up twice more, without incident. Still couldn't get food into the man, and John was near the point of putting a feeding tube into the stubborn detective. John was currently seated on the left far side of the couch, Sherlock on the right, with a plate of chocolate, chocolate cream filled biscuits in between. Sherlock was watching *** telly, and John was stealing glances at Sherlock whenever he would mumble deductions from the observations he made. One line of reasoning in particular had John's heart swelling with déjà vu, "Of course he's the boy father. Look at the turn up on his jeans!" They could be watching a rerun; John hadn't paid close enough attention the first time to know. At least Sherlock was interacting with something, rather than fleeing into a corner and whining that annoying sound like he'd done so frequent these past few days.

Lestrade had gone to work, out of sick leave, but had promised to return with some Dim Sum and eggrolls from their favorite Chinese restaurant. Molly would be dropping by later in the day as well, offering her expertise of cutting hair. It was agreed that a familiar, friendly face, would be better to try before having Mycroft send over a trusted employee of his to do it. Mrs. Hudson had yet to present herself while Sherlock was awake, unable to bear seeing her loveable tenant so, unSherlock. However, she made sure to keep them stocked with cups of tea, tins of biscuits, and soft bland foods premade. She had even gone to the shops for them.

John glanced down between them and noticed a cookie gone, sneaking a peek at the suddenly quiet detective to see very tiny nibbles be taken from the 'stolen treat', microscopic crumbs sticking to his mouth. John did a victory dance in his head. As a doctor, John should be concerned of the choice of food to that Sherlock finally chose to divulge in, but his friend could certainly do with any meat the sweet sustenance would give him. The gaunt figure, similar to one you would see on the 'Help feed Africa commercials', worried the doctor just as much as the wounds, and mental trauma. Malnutrition and starvation were killers in their own right.

"Would you do it for a Scooby snack?" a female voice asked enticingly.

John jerked back to attention, that didn't sound like one of the ridiculous shows they were just watching. Sure enough, a children's show was playing now. Oddly dressed young adults, a talking great dane, and a psychedelic van that held the familiar logo of 'Mystery Machine' was now showing on the small television. Bemused and transfixed, John barely caught Sherlock speaking, probably something deprecating about the cartoon.

"Don't worry, John," Sherlock barely whispered. "The monsters aren't real…not these ones."

Eyebrows shot up into his hairline. Had Sherlock just spoken to _him_? Did Sherlock realize he was sitting beside his best friend, watching mindless shows and killing brain cells with him? Excitement filled his soul; maybe things were better than he thought. Cautious to let his hopes rise too much, he took Sherlock's announcement in stride. "No, Sherlock, the monsters aren't real." He looked the detective over, pleased to see the detective munching on a second biscuit, albeit just as slow, engrossed in the mystery that was being played. The remote rested on a bony thigh, he was surprised that Sherlock would pinch it off the cushion between them, much more that he would flip the channel to a cartoon. The man had barely said a word since John had got him out from under the table this morning and went through their routine of shower, breakfast, tv; only helping John by walking. The rest of everything else, John had maneuvered and held the lanky form in place.

After another episode of Scooby Doo and two more biscuits had found a home in Sherlock's tummy, John ambled to the kitchen to warm up lunch: baked chicken, mash potatoes, steamed carrots, and a lemon tart for dessert. Even without seasonings to spice it up, John's stomach rumbled in anticipation. He hoped it would have Sherlock salivating too.

The doctor returned to the living room with two plates in hand, Sherlock remained as he'd left him: curled position plastered to the end of the sofa, completely fixated on the nerdy girl revealing the masked figure. The lanky detective clapped in delight with an exclamation of, "I knew it!"

John smiled at the man-child, "Sit up, Sherlock, and I'll set your plate on your lap." He wasn't entirely sure how this would go over, as they hadn't managed to get a meal in him yet, but it was worth a try and any mess he would just have to clean up afterwards. Suspicious eyes searched him; John allowed it without a word. Slowly, the gangly body situated upright, legs indian style. John set the dish of food onto his lap, placed a fork into the man's hand, and watched as it fell from the limp appendage, tongs first onto an exposed knee. He was thankful he had thought to cut the chicken up, so Sherlock wouldn't need a knife. The utensil bounced off the bony ***, but the damage was done. Legs bucked with a cry of pain. John narrowly missed catching the dish as it was flung to the floor, food scattered and smeared everywhere. Ceramic shattered on impact of the hard wood floor, a repetitive whining echoing the loud break. John looked up, shocked at the utter chaos that was caused by such a domestic activity as lunch.

Sherlock's mashed potato soiled hands shielded his ears, cooling food coating the previously, clean locks. Aggravated with himself, for not foreseeing this as a possible outcome, John jumped up and got a damp cloth, rubbing food from his friend's face. He pried hands from ears to wipe them clean too. He hoisted the too thin frame off the couch, the annoying sound from Sherlock still filling the silence, and grating on his nerves. He gently toppled the man into his chair, so he could clean up the sofa and surrounding area. He glanced at the clock, taking note that they still had a couple of hours before Molly would be popping in, and a few more after that before Greg got off of work.

Once the sitting room was scoured, and Sherlock was quiet again, John took his own plate back to the kitchen to fix it up for Sherlock. Lesson learned, he steered a forlorn Sherlock to the kitchen table, being sure to push the chair in as much was comfortable, to avoid another painful and messy incident. He set the fork on the plate and took Sherlock's limp hand and forced it to hold the utensil. The scene was much like a parent training a young child to use a utensil, rather than allowing them to continue to use their hands to eat with. He guided Sherlock's hand to scoop up food with the fork, and lifted it up to a waiting mouth. John chuckled to himself, the thought of the 'airplane' technique passing through. He wouldn't demean the proud detective any more than he would take the risk of a wrathful strop after everything goes back to the way it should be. Jaw slightly open, took the food in, naturally closing around the fork to hold the sustenance as the utensil slid out, and chewing.

One bite is all it took. Sherlock's stomach rumbled like a growling bear, obviously neglected and ravenous for more. The man hunched over the table, towering over his plate, an arm wrapping around for protection. He snatched his hand from John's light grip, sending fork flying across the room, and digging fingers full force into the meal before him. The sight before John was a feral child shoving as much as he could, as fast as he could, before his caregiver changed his mind and stole it back. When John got too close for Sherlock's comfort, teeth flashed, menacing eyes glinted in the low light, and a deep, savage growl was emitted.

"Sherlock! Slow down, mate. I'm not going to take it away from you," the doctor rasped in shock, wisely staying a safe distance back, should he lose a finger or two. "You're going to make yourself sick…"

The wild animal before him was barely breathing, hardly chewing, if he didn't choke first, he was surely going to vomit. "SHERLOCK!" John's captain demeanor commanded the attention he was seeking. He gave a nod when Sherlock stopped propelling food into his eager mouth and sat back, doe-eyed with fright.

Before John could try to explain why eating so fast would be 'a bit not good', Sherlock sprang out of his chair and fled the kitchen and away from John. The doctor stood dumbfounded for a moment before he ordered his feet to move, to seek out Sherlock. The doctor followed Sherlock's infamous noise, the half whine-half sob. John sighed, "Way to go, Watson, you idiot."

There was putrid smelling puddle of puke in the corner of Sherlock's room. The distressed man was presently holed up under his bed. As John's footsteps drew closer to Sherlock's hiding place, his friend's sobbing-whine turned into hushed apologies. Knees creaked as the army doctor knelt down to eye level with the frightening genius.

~SH~SH~SH~

'They allowed him food. Must eat it before they take it back; don't know when I'll get more. They're talking to me. No!' He can't, he won't get enough down. They're already coming for his meal. Faster, faster; must keep it down. "SHERLOCK!" No, no, no. He had taken too long. They're going to punish him.

'Run! Must hide, quickly, but where?' Sherlock fled from the kitchen, blindly running into the first open door. He cowered in the open corner, waiting, anxious, and scared…and sick? Sherlock clutched at his rebelling stomach, trembling with the effort to not sick up, as much as he was shaking with pure terror. His efforts went in vain; his body seized as he saw and tasted his latest lunch. That's really not good. Now he'll be getting a whopping for this too, and now he no longer has enough sustenance in his body to get him through the long period of between meals. Had they poisoned him?

He searched for a better safe haven, frantic eyes landing on the space underneath the medical bed. Footsteps neared, his heartbeat hammered fast and hard against his ribcage, panic overwhelmed his mind. He sees them, sees their mouth's moving, but he can't understand them. His brain tells him that he'd be better off coming out and accepting what is coming, but he doesn't want to hurt anymore. So, his instincts win and he burrows further into the safety of the darkness. John's going to be so mad that he's made a scene. He wants dad. Dad will tell John he hadn't meant to be bad. 'But what if John tells Greg that I've been bad and deserve to be disciplined…' If it made things better, if it made them happy, he'd take his reprimands. 'Why can't I be good? What's wrong with me? Please, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.'

~SH~SH~SH~

John stretched a hand under the bed where Sherlock lay, trying to reach out and help him but the man shrank further underneath. "Sherlock, it's okay. Everything is going to be just fine," He tried to reassure, voice placid and soothing. He can fix this. Sherlock's eyes are glazed over, they register his presence, but John isn't for sure what the man's actually seeing. "Sherlock, can you tell me what's wrong? Sherlock, its John, can you hear me?"

John scoots a bit closer towards Sherlock, catching fragments of mutterings, "John's…so mad."

"No. No, Sherlock, I'm not mad. You didn't do anything wrong. You've just worried me a bit, is all." The doctor is going to have permanent creases in his forehead if Sherlock has anything to do with it. How had he'd manage to *** up a simple task as lunch?

"Dad. I want, dad."

"Lestrade? Do you want me to call Greg, Sherlock?" This hurts him much more than it should.

"…if… tells Greg …'ve… bad …deserve… disciplined," Sherlock rambled incoherently. "Why …n't I…good? … wrong …me? Please, I'm s'rry. I'm s'rry. I'm s'rry."

"Oh, Sherlock…" tears spring to John's eyes, blurring his view of the distraught detective. His heart aches for what his friend is going through, what they've all been through, and what they will have to struggle through in the future. "You are good, Sherlock. You're very good. There isn't a thing wrong with you. You don't have anything to apologize for." John pulled out from underneath the bed, still lying on the floor across from Sherlock, and grabbed his phone. "Don't worry now; I'm going to get Greg over here. We'll get you sorted, one way or another."

John dialed the DI's phone and asked him to come over to 221B immediately, to not panic, he was just needed. He'd call Mycroft and get Lestrade's job sorted if he had to. Lestrade was at the flat, less than ten minutes later. Now both men were sprawled on the floor, trying to coax the panicked genius out and into the open.

"Sherlock, come on out now, I'm here." Lestrade called out to the young man. The DI wrinkled his nose when he caught a whiff of the vomit in the corner of the room. "Sherlock," he sighed. "Please come out. I'm getting too old to be laying on the floor, now."

"Maybe I should leave? He might be keener on coming out, if I'm not here…" John suggested, an air of gloom surrounding him. He started to get up, when a hand met his shoulder. He looked over to meet the Inspector's gaze.

"John, he isn't afraid of you. He isn't hiding from you."

A touch, cold and smooth, tentative and nervous, brushes over the top of his hand, then retreats to settle over fingers. Tilted head, dark curls covering one eye, the other staring, longing, for help, for acceptance. The older man turned his hand over and grasped the long fingers. His other hand reached over and grasped John's, pulling at it until it reached Sherlock's shoulder. They stayed like for seven minutes, calming, reassuring. Lestrade gave a gently tug at Sherlock's fingers, silently asking him leave his safe place. Sherlock gave a whine, but started to shimmer out from under the metal confines of the bed. John made sure Sherlock's weight never steadied on his injured arm. Slowly, but surely, the lanky man was out in the open and looking like an abashed child, puppy dog eyes and protruding lip completing the pitiful ensemble.

"Very good to see you, mate." John chuckled, taking in the filthy appearance before him. a layer of dust and cobwebs were added to the list of messes covering Sherlock. He sent a side glance towards Lestrade, who was also laughing at the sight before them. "Reckon we should give him another bath, before Molly comes?"

"Nah, might as well save it for tonight. He'll need to wash the cut hair off anyhow; you know even with a trash bag over his shoulders, he'll end up with it all over him."

Sherlock was finding the floor very interesting, refusing to look at either of his two friends. They sat him on the floor in front of the television, John found another mystery cartoon for him to watch, while he cleaned up the sick in the bedroom and Lestrade set up a barber shop in the kitchen. Molly would be arriving soon.

Lestrade came back to the living room, easing down to sit beside Sherlock. He nudged his shoulder with his own, grimacing when he came in contact with a sharp scapula bone rather than a full, healthy shoulder. "Now, Sunshine, Molly is going to be dropping in to cut your hair. Do you understand?"

A nod; he mouthed, "Molly."

John joined them on the floor. "You going to be alright with that, Sherlock?"

Another nod; he reiterated a mouthing of Molly, eyes never leaving the telly.

They watched Scooby Doo until Molly gave a careful rap at the door. John went to let her in, leaving Lestrade to explain again what exactly would be happening. His only response was a double nod and Sherlock's raspy whisper of "Molly."

"Hello, John," greeted Molly, nervous and chipper as always. "How is our favorite detective today?"

"Hi, Molly," welcomed John, taking her coat to hang up. "Hard to say really, but that's nothing new."

"Does he know I'm coming, and why?"

"Yes, we've told him multiple times. He'll acknowledge it, as if he understands, but can't say that means much."

"Oh. Well, I guess we'll just have to see what happens."

Molly and John went through to the kitchen, where Lestrade already had Sherlock sitting in the chair set up for him. A black trash bag was wrapped around his thin frame to prevent hair going down his clothes, his exposed hand had a white-knuckled grip on the arm of his seat. Lestrade sat cattycorner to the young man, trying to gain his attention, to calm and relax. Molly came around in front of Sherlock and knelt to find his gaze.

"Sherlock?" Molly's tone was soft and tentative, a small pale hand lightly brushed over the larger, just as pale one.

"Molly?" Sherlock's eyes shown with a bemused blunted joy; he was happy to see his pathologist, but clearly hadn't believed she would be coming. The taut frame fidgeted a moment before wrapping his good arm around her thin neck, hesitant, cautious.

The coroner though surprised didn't hesitate to wrap her arms around his broken body. Trying to blink back her tears, she squeezed him softly. "It's good to see you too, Sherlock," she whispered, overjoyed. He released her shortly after he had initiated the embrace. Molly stood up and dabbed a tissue at her running makeup. She grabbed the scissors and went behind the chair. "Sherlock, are you ready for a haircut? Won't it be nice to see without curly locks in the way?"

Sherlock gave a curt nod, brows knitted. He looked unsure as to what he was agreeing with, but dead set on fulfilling whatever they intended for him. John prayed that his friend didn't see this as some sort of punishment for the earlier episode.

John went to the other corner of Sherlock and squatted down, ready should something happen. He had prepared for if this backfired. He hated to admit, but he expected it would. Everything else had gone wrong for them so far. Molly lifted the scissors and took a hold of the first bunch, so long John figured might as well cut the excess before shaping and evening it out. Sherlock tensed, but said nothing. Cold metal grazed warm skin, and John could see the transformation. Sherlock's eyes glazed over and he clenched his eyes shut. A screaming fit was about to occur, John was just thankful it wasn't a full blown tantrum like a child on the floor, fists and feet pounding the ground beneath them.

Lestrade observed the change as well; he was up out of his seat right as the first yell rang out. Molly drew back immediately, startled by the sudden reaction. "Molly, don't worry, try again." He took Sherlock's wrists in his hands and gripped firmly, but not painful, trying to ground the man to reality. Molly went back and restarted. Scissors encompasses long strands, cold metal grazing warm skin. Sherlock screamed out, muscles tightened further, causing his back to hunch over slightly.

John grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filling it with fresh, ice water. He pulled a medicine bottle from his pocket, spilling out a small, white pill. Lestrade and Molly eye the doctor, then the tablet. "It's valium," John explained. "It will keep him calm for a short time, so we can get this done, without terrifying him more. Mycroft supplied it for him." No one looked happy about it, but it appeared their only and best option. The army doctor handed the items over to Lestrade, and nodded for him to give them to the panicking man.

"Sherlock, here, I have something I want you to take," said Lestrade.

"Will it…Will it make you happy?"

"Yes. Yes, it will make me happy." Lestrade's voice was thick with hampered emotions. A choked sob escaped his lips when Sherlock opened his mouth, trusting and willing. Lestrade placed the medicine in and helped him hold the glass to wash it down. They waited, five, ten, fifteen minutes for the valium to take effect. It didn't really look much different than what Sherlock usually appeared nowadays, but his breathing was even and his muscles relaxed.

~SH~SH~SH~

He hadn't gotten in trouble! Well, at least he hadn't been punished yet. Instead, they were watching his favorite episode of the mystery gang! The bad guys were Captain Redbeard and his dastardly crew. He could tell it was Mr. Magnus way before the big reveal, he could tell by his height, and the way he moved his mouth when he spoke. He told Greg as such too. He had smiled and ruffled his dark locks… he liked it when Greg did that. He didn't understand why they kept interrupting the show with talk of Molly. Molly wasn't here. She had left a long time ago. Maybe they were worried he would forget her. So he nodded and repeated her name. He remembered her, he wouldn't forget. He had a special room allocated to her after all.

There was a knock on the door as Velma was pulling off the criminal's masks, proving he was in fact right. His ears intermittently picked up on voices, one male and one female. He focused harder on his cartoon. He didn't want to know why someone else was here.

After the episode Lestrade guided him to the kitchen and put trash bags around his neck. He was confused, frightened, but if this is what they wanted, he'd take it. Surely it would be better than a beating. Greg was in his peripheral vision, his lips were moving, but Sherlock was too focused on preparing for all possible disciplinary actions that could involve him sitting in a chair, with a bag around his torso.

A familiar face is in front of him. He knows this face! His heart leapt into his throat. Why was she here? What is going on? Is she in danger? Is she helping them? He couldn't bear to have her hurt him too.

"Sherlock?" Molly's soft, careful voice brings him from his thoughts. Her warm hand is placed upon his cold one.

"Molly?" He was confused, but he was pleased to see his pathologist. She'd seen him, even when no one else could. Were Greg and John trying to tell him that she was coming earlier? But why was she here? He felt lighter with her presence, maybe…could he?

Sherlock cautiously, afraid of rejection, wrapped an arm around the slight woman. She tensed, but returned his hug, giving him a gentle squeeze. "It's good to see you too, Sherlock," she whispered. He let her go, sure she was uncomfortable touching him for so long. She stood back up and dabbed at her eyes. Had he hurt her? She was talking to him again. He didn't hear her, but he nodded nonetheless. He would do whatever she wanted.

John came back into view. Something tugged at his hair. What was happening? He couldn't see behind him, but he was beginning to worry. An icy dulled edge brushed against the back of his neck. No! They were punishing him after all. They tried to lull him into a false sense of security with the telly, just to try and behead him later! He couldn't do this. He tried. He wanted them to be happy, but he couldn't just sit there and allow this. Please, anything but this. Eyes shut tight, body ready for impact, he let out a terrified screech.

He remained in his seat, too frightened to move, but unable to stop the horrified cries. They were afraid he would escape; they didn't realize that he couldn't move, they were restraining him. The blunted knife drew back from his skin. A brief moment, too brief, and Sherlock could feel the icy metal return, he yelled out again, muscled taut, body leaning forward, away from the weapon.

Water was running, people talking. Why were his friends doing this to him? Did they hate him for what he'd done? He didn't want them involved. He had never meant for this to happen. He was sorry, so very sorry.

Lestrade grabbed his chin, forcing the smaller man to look at him. "Sherlock, here, I have something I want you to take."

"Will it…Will it make you happy?" he asked, sad, miserable, resigned.

"Yes. Yes, it will make me happy," The DI confirmed.

Sherlock loosened his jaw and willed it open. Greg placed a tiny object in. A drug, Sherlock deduced. Water followed suit and soon the pill was swallowed. 'Are they poisoning me again?' Time passed, slowly, and soon Sherlock didn't feel or think much of anything at all. He didn't like this feeling. He retreated to his mind palace, going down endless halls, until he reached the door he wanted. The nameplate read "Redbeard". Maybe he and Redbeard could play, or watch some telly together. It would all be over soon. Soon, he hoped.

~SH~SH~SH~

The haircut didn't take long, once Sherlock was calm and pliant. Molly didn't stick around after her work was complete; obviously upset about what had occurred, but brushing it off with an excuse of needing to be at work early the next morning. They manhandled their friend to the couch. Scooby Doo wasn't on, but a cartoon movie called "Peter Pan" was playing. John sat on the couch with Sherlock, Lestrade in the detective's chair to wait out the rest of the medicine's effects.

Sherlock's body fell to the side, head landing on John's shoulder. His newly shortened curls brushing against the side of the doctor's neck. They sat in silence at the little fairy was captured by the pirate captain, John's rough hand, coming up to absentmindedly run fingers through the dark, curly locks. He hoped he was offering some form of comfort to the spaced-out genius. Perhaps the medication would help block the memory of the recent trauma.

Sherlock's hand tangled itself in John's jumper, as his eyes focused in on the television. The two other men grinned at the drugged detective upon his admittance of, "I wanted to be a pirate when I grew up, more than anything in the world. Redbeard was going to be my first mate." He gave a sigh of contentment, settling in deeper, closer to his best friend's side. If he was aware of his words, or actions, it was unclear, but it warmed the doctor's and inspector's hearts either way. Tomorrow was a new day, hopefully a better day; though no one would say no, to dinner going over better tonight... For now, sitting in front of the telly, watching some mindless children's movie, all three, more or less at ease, everything was just fine.


	5. The Mind's Tempest

**A/N: Important!** _Hello guys! I hope you enjoy chapter 5. I am strongly considering ending the story with the next chapter. I have run out of ideas and no one else has come forth with anything specific they would like to see occur. I hate to end it, as I am enjoying writing it, however, it would be unfair to you guys to leave it sitting for an indefinite amount of time, waiting to see what happens next. It's not set in stone. Perhaps some more ideas will sprout or readers will spring some thoughts for me to work with. In the mean time, I hope you enjoy "The Mind's Tempest"_.

Still unbetaed.

* * *

**The Mind's Tempest**

A storm had been brewing for days. Clouds hid the sun away; the wind wreaked havoc in the city, sweeping and strewing items about, humidity had thickened the atmosphere as an impenetrable fog rolled through the streets. Rumbles of thunder, quiet and vague, mixed with the everyday hustle and bustle of London. The paper boy hurriedly filled the newspaper stands, with news that read, "Sherlock Holmes, is Alive: The vindicated detective faked own death!"

A week had passed, seven days of routine, worry, and a hair of progress. Sherlock remained pliant, though not necessarily compliant. He still refused to do anything without being made, except for bathe. Sherlock would wash himself up, but never without prompting. The only thing he could be predicted to do without hesitation was to run and hide, at the drop of a coin. Literally, he had walked straight into a desk, jarred the wood where a penny laid on the edge. When it promptly fell to the floor, Sherlock's legs scrambled for escape. It was the most ridiculous thing that had set the detective off yet and it had taken a good half hour to coax him from the closet. A mess of change followed, when to prevent a similar occurrence they had tossed and dropped coins all over the sitting room, encouraging Sherlock to join in on the fun. Their point was made in the end; it was ok if coins hit the floor, just pick them up and place them back where they had been. No punishment necessary for an accident, especially something silly as money landing on the ground. John was fairly certain the last part was the only part Sherlock took in.

After the infamous lunch a week ago, Sherlock would watch whoever was with him at the table. They still kept a hand over his, to make sure the utensil would not be abandoned for the more convenient way of eating. He ate slower, but was not pleased with the forced implementation of cutlery. He never complained of hunger, but he rarely turned down food when it was set before him. John and Greg were beginning to feel like progress was being made in this area, till they found left overs or snacks scattered throughout the flat, some beginning to mold. It turned out Sherlock wasn't eating out of hunger, or even just to please them. He was eating out of necessity, still unsure of when the next meal would be his last. He had taken to stealing food whenever he was not being monitored directly, hiding his pilfered goods where he could easily find and make use of them, should the need arise. They could deal with that though. If that is what it took for Sherlock to feel safe, then cleaning up moldy specimens were the least they could do.

Their biggest challenge with the lanky detective, aside from his tantrums and fearful disappearances, were his sleeping habits. Understandably so, Sherlock suffered from nightmares, and refused to sleep until his body dropped with exhaustion. The young genius seemed to recognize when it was about to occur too, because he would always disappear. He wasn't running out of fear, just making sure he was safe during one of his most vulnerable states. His favorite sleeping places consisted of closed in areas, such as, under the bed, in closets, in the bathtub, under anything really. Lestrade watched him closely at night to anticipate when they needed to get the detective to bed. He didn't like the mattress, but he would rest on it for a while if Greg stayed with him. When the DI fell asleep, Sherlock would get up and stumble about to somewhere he liked to sleep. It was not an odd occurrence for John to pull his friend out from under the kitchen table or living room desk in the mornings before work.

Molly had dropped by a couple more times, bringing biscuits or puzzle games with her. Sherlock appeared to enjoy her visits, when he was lucid enough to do so. He would sit on the floor by her legs, not close enough to touch, but to feel the warmth. He would tinker with whatever treat she'd brought with her, parroting her name, until something would inevitably set him off. They couldn't quite figure out all of the triggers, however, they were all getting pretty good at coaxing the detective back out and calming the situation down.

John was at work, leaving Greg to tend to Sherlock that day. Dark clouds blanketed the sky, the wind raged outside, beating against walls and surrounding the small flat. Molly had brought a rubics cube her last stopover, the young genius set on the floor, in front of Greg, who sat on the couch, turning it over in his hands, like a compulsion. Lestrade could hear the wheels turning like clockwork as Sherlock worked out the pattern of the colored squares. The stubborn man had refused to interact with his father figure since this morning, after the DI had smacked his hand for putting his spoon in the toilet. It had been a pitiful sight. Sherlock had been cranky from the sleep deprivation catching up to him, turning his outburst into a full blown tantrum. As soon as Lestrade's hand came into contact with his, the young man's lip came out, quivering, tears flooding those expressive eyes and he'd been silent, but mindful of his behavior ever since.

With Sherlock occupied, cartoon on the telly, puzzle cube in hand, and a plate of biscuits at his side, the detective inspector decided it would be a good time to slip into the loo for a shower. He grabbed his overnight bag, which had turned into a mini closet by this point, and announced his intentions. Sherlock spared the man a glance, before his attention was brought back to the telly from an exclamation of, "Jenkies!"

"I'll be back in a few minutes, kiddo. I'll be in the bathroom, if you need me, just give a shout." Lestrade sighed when he was met with silence. He shut the door behind him, and adjusted the taps, breathing deeply as steam filled the small space. If he closed his eyes, and allowed his mind to wander, it was almost like he was in his own flat, getting ready for work. As hot water beat and rolled down his back, tension eased from his shoulders and he felt refreshed, relaxed, ready to face the world once more. As enjoyable as it would be to stand there for hours, the DI knew he needed to hurry, there was no telling what the detective was getting himself into. 'Just a couple more minutes,' he thought. 'How much trouble could a half out of his mind man-child get into, really?'

~SH~ ~SH~ ~SH~

A resounding boom echoed off the walls, the explosion of noise, shook the tiny flat on its foundation. The tv screen flickered a couple of times before it cut off altogether. A flash of lightening penetrated the freshly dimmed room, sending shivers down Sherlock's spine. The loud rumbles of noise, the rapidly, repetitive bursts of light, all in quick succession of one another, it was another session of sensory overload! He thought that at least these were over. The thunder mixed with the beating of the rain, which mixed with angry shouts and blares of horns and screams of agony. The lightening continuously showed its rage, and the electricity rebelled with flickers of on and off, a disco ball of colors flashed beneath closed lids. A mixture of salt and blood filled his nostrils, coated his tongue. His face was hot and cold at the same time. Too much, it's too much to absorb. Nothing makes sense. Heart races, can't breathe, he can't think. His whole body shakes, quakes with the vibrations of the flat. Arms wrap around him, painful, but comforting. Everything hurts. His brain is trying to kill itself. Can't hide. Must run, can't escape. Somebody, please, please make it end!

Words, a string of words, sentences, were being hurled at him with high speed. Can't make out their sounds, can't make out their meaning. Tone, the way they are being spoken…its high-pitched, loud, commanding…panicked? That didn't make sense either. He must have got it wrong, thoughts are too jumbled, he just picked from them before they could fly away from him.

Pressure on his shoulders, presses down firmly, grounding him; the pressure shifts, jostling him, it frightens him more. His friends are with him, but they are no longer on his side. They have made their resentment clear, in many ways. The two-facedness about it all, agitated him. They took advantage of his love, his need for them. He wouldn't take it anymore. He may deserve it, but even he had survival instincts, whether he wanted them or not.

He throws his head forward, coming into contact with something firm, and warm. His tormenter is jolted backwards, away from him. He ordered his legs to move. It didn't matter where, just so long as it wasn't here. His feet led him through a door, down a stairway, they took a turn and through another door. Another voice, softer, older, female, approaches him slowly. He searched his surroundings with quick, precise eyes. It's dark in here too. Difficult to make much out, but he must find something to fight with.

There's no use, he can't see clearly enough to find a precise object. He may be weakened, but he can still fight, if he must. The fairer sex, especially one with age, should be significantly easier to take down than the male assailant he had head-butted earlier. He knew many ways to incapacitate, harm, even kill a human, but he didn't want to do more than use her to help him escape. If she worked here, then she knew the way out, and while there was no way for him to charm her, he could sure as heck scare her. The cover of darkness could be used to his advantage; the woman needn't know his enfeebled state, only that he meant business.

Once her footfalls came close enough, Sherlock's hands shot out to cease his victim, his grip hard and unrelenting against her struggles. The woman cried out in fear, and fought against his hold. With energy he wasn't aware he had, Sherlock twisted the late-middle-aged woman's frail arm behind her back and pushed her up against the wall. He leaned in close, ignoring her pleas, to whisper in her ear, "Tell me how to get out of here, and no harm shall come to you." He was angry, but it wasn't her fault, he could neither confirm nor deny, that she had anything to do with his presence here, or if she, herself was even here of her own free will. He eased up on his grip, trying to be as gentle as he could, but maintaining his authority in the situation. He wouldn't hurt her, but he wasn't letting her go without the information he wanted either.

Hastened, heavy steps made their way down the stairs. His tormenter was calling out for him, hunting him down, if Sherlock didn't get out now, he would most certainly be doomed. The woman continued to sob, continued to be useless and annoying. He was becoming desperate. A knock on the door, the lady in his arms called out for help. He mentally berated himself for his stupidity. He should have moved his victim further away, threatened her into submission, into silence. The entrance slammed open and Sherlock brought his prey in front of him, arm still twisted behind her back, and being pulled at mercilessly. He wasn't going back without a fight.

His hostage trembled against him, as he dragged her backwards with him, his haunted eyes searched frantically for an exit. He backed his way through what appeared to be a galley of sorts, and that is where he found his saving grace, another door! His name was being shouted, he ignored it, it would be pointless to respond to someone he had no intention of listening to. He chucked the terrorized woman at his oncoming aggressor, sending them both sprawling to the floor. He threw himself at the door, and lunged out before anyone could reach him, slamming it closed behind him. He looked back and forth, observing his new environment. It was definitely outside. The wind was howling, the icy rain pelted his skin, and he felt the familiar panic swell up in him when he noticed that there was nowhere to go. He was surrounded by tall gates. The noise, the lights, the sensations overwhelmed him. He hid behind the rubbish bins, huddling and cowering. A calming rocking motion…it helps, he likes this. 'Please don't let it stop.' Gentle tugs to his locks, pulling softly at the roots. His brain slows. Still can't think, but its better. Hot streams of tears make way down his sharp cheeks. There's no point in fighting them, he is defeated. He hasn't any fight left in him. He tried, he failed. End of story.

~SH~ ~SH~ ~SH~

A terrifying scream echoed the rolling thunder; it stopped Greg's heart momentarily. He scrambled out of the shower, not bothering to turn the knobs off. The DI haphazardly dried off and tugged the first set of clothing he found over his damp form. He raced into the sitting room, where Sherlock's lanky formed was hunched over, smooth hands clutched tightly over his ears. The young detective rocked back and forth, screaming and sobbing. Blood spilled over open lips, as Sherlock forgot, or forewent swallowing. He must have bitten his tongue at some point. Lestrade hurried to the hyperventilating man, trembling, moving arms to embrace his own torso, and grabbed a hold of heaving shoulders.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade hollered above the chaos of 221B. "Sherlock, I need you to listen to me. It's just a storm! Chemical reactions if you will. Come, on Sherlock! Everything is fine, you're safe with me; I've got you." The DI became anxious when it seemed his voice couldn't penetrate his charge's nightmare.

He adjusted his grip on Sherlock's shoulders to give a few sharp shakes, causing the younger to flinch. He tried calling out to him again, when the air was suddenly assaulted out of him. The inspector was thrown backwards and landing in a heap on the floor, his lungs struggled to regain air, while his mind reeled at being attacked. Before he could recover, Sherlock was up and out the door of 221B.

~SH~SH~

The electricity had cut off as Mrs. Hudson was preparing tea. She had lain down on the sofa when a shuffling on the stairs and in the hall could be heard. Assuming it was the nice, detective inspector or that John had come home early due to the weather, the kindly, old lady continued to sink into the cushions, ready for nap. She snapped to alertness, rising up, when her door opened and shut. Her vision wasn't like it had once been, and with the curtains pulled to, it was near impossible to see who had intruded into her home. The only person, who sometimes forgot to knock, was Sherlock, and he wouldn't be coming down to visit her…

"Hello?" she called out in to the blackness, walking towards the quick and heavy breaths. She grabbed her can of pepper spray from its home beside the couch, and held it close as she neared the silent figure. "Is anyone there? John? Greg? Is that one of you, boys?"

All of a sudden, she was grabbed, rough and firm. She fights to free herself from the oppressive hands, but the assailant does not loosen his grip. She cries out, scared, in hopes that one her boys would hear and come help her. Unexpectedly, her accoster turns her about, pressing her hard against the sitting room wall, her arm brought back behind her twisted. Pain overwhelms her senses and her cries turn into loud sobs. Her face lands on the corner of a large picture frame. It hurts, and she is very aware of the damage it will have done. She begs for release, tells him to take whatever he wants, to just, please, let her go.

The aggressor leans in close, warm breath hitting her neck, sending chills down her spine. "Tell me how to get out of here and no harm shall come to you." That voice. It couldn't be. Her Sherlock would never hurt her! She refused to believe it, but the evidence did not lie. Her boy, her battered, broken boy, was currently holding her hostage, threatening her to show him the way out.

His unyielding grasp, loosened slightly, she hoped he was coming to his senses. The detective man, Lestrade, was crying out for Sherlock to come out. That the young man was okay and everything would make sense again, soon enough. Mrs. Hudson wept even harder. Another knock at her door, the detective was calling out to her, asking if she was okay, crying out for Sherlock.

"Help! Greg, he's in here! He's not right! Help me, Greg!" she cried out. Her door crashed open, revealing a harried Lestrade. Sherlock tightened his grip on her arm again, and the landlady was sure it was going to rip out of the socket.

Sherlock dragged her in reverse, as she shook within his hold. She found herself in the kitchen; the delusional man behind her searched the tiny room, for an escape. There wasn't one really, at least not the one he was looking for. She wouldn't be telling him that though. "Sherlock," she tried, gently, between sniffles. Lestrade had followed them, still trying to get a response from Sherlock.

She was roughly shoved into the DI's arms, causing them both to fall to the floor. She was grateful to the nice inspector for easing her landing. Sherlock sprang through the kitchen door, slamming it behind him, no doubt finding out that he was in the back garden. Only exit was a locked gate. The key was hanging near the window above the sink. She worried about him, even as she cradled her poor arm to herself. Whoever had him before he came home, had done a number on the poor soul. He was unhealthy as is, and if stayed out in the storm too long, he was liable to catch his death.

She watched as Greg followed Sherlock out into the back garden, and moved to observe from the kitchen window. Sherlock was pressed up against her rubbish bins. They were only a year or so old; Sherlock had replaced the last ones, because he'd tossed an American agent on them, crushing the silver cans. The rain mixed with the young man's tears, the wind knotting his impossibly, messy curls. He recoiled from every rumble of thunder and brought his hands to entangle in dark tufts, yanking at them. He swayed back in forth, eyes clenched shut. Lestrade squatted down before the boy, and rested his head in his hands.

Mrs. Hudson backed away from the scene, heading towards the phone. John would just have to come home. He could fix her arm right up and tend to Sherlock while Lestrade calmed down. She'd start a fire going in the meantime, and find her tin of special biscuits. Maybe an herbal soother would help her arm as much as it helped with the pain in her hip.

~SH~SH~

John was out the door of the hospital and hailing a cab before he had even finished his call with Mrs. Hudson. The moment she said his name, he could hear the tears in her voice. Something had happened, something very 'not good'. As she explained the events of the evening, he couldn't figure out how he should be feeling: angry with his flatmate, for hurting their landlady, or enraged with the people who had brought his flatmate to this point. He settled on a little of the first, and leaned heavily on the latter.

It wasn't that he was upset with Sherlock for having an episode and being frightened enough to run or even bold enough to fight for it. However, Sherlock had yet to become too unruly; even with his mild aggressiveness, John couldn't see his friend hurting any female, much less the motherly Mrs. Hudson. A woman he had nearly killed a man for laying a hand to her. A woman he had ensured the death penalty of her abusive, murderous husband for. It would seem the game had changed in its dynamics completely, without bothering to tell them the new rules.

The doctor stewed for half the trip, and prepared for the inevitable power struggle the other half of the ride. He had plenty of time to do both with the traffic and inclement weather causing the drive to be much longer than normal. He was calm upon his arrival to Baker Street, a stark contrast to the raging storm about, both physically and figuratively.

He entered the Mrs. Hudson's flat, to find her puttering about, setting things in order, stroking a fire. A tin of biscuits and pastries were displayed on the coffee table, blankets were at the ready near the sofa, and the kindly lady had her left arm hugged tightly to her. No sign of a hopefully contrite detective or an exasperated detective inspector.

John greeted his landlady with a smile that came across as more of a grimace. Medical bag in hand, he set about examining her injured limb. Nothing time, ice, and immobilization wouldn't heal. He put her arm in a sling, and gave her a cold compress while she assured him that she was fine, that she had survived much worse before Sherlock had even come around.

"They are still in the back garden, out in that weather, John," She answered his unspoken question, clearly concerned with their health, rather than her own. "Gregory can't get him to come in. I'm not sure he's come out of his state yet, either."

John strode out with purpose, to where his two friends were currently located in a battle of wills. The DI was clearly exasperated as he repeatedly tried to bring a dazed Sherlock to, unable to break through the haze of terror and anger. The detective was not penitent for the damage he had inflicted, instead seemed to still be stuck in whatever nightmare his mind had constructed, clearly being exacerbated by the unwelcome stimulation around him.

"Sherlock," John tried, squatting down to eye level. "Sherlock, can you hear me? Do you know who is talking to you?" When met with the expected silence, John picked Sherlock up, bridal style, and carried him indoors, Lestrade trailing behind him. Sherlock fought John the moment he was touched, a strangled, indignant noise escaping blue lips. John allowed legs and fists to lash out, to meet his form with painful blows, without protest. Once inside, still with Sherlock in his firm hold, he fell onto Mrs. Hudson's sofa to resolutely wait out the latest tantrum.

Sherlock's sopping clothes finished soaking John's own garments as he held tight to flailing man. Lestrade went to change and grab extra outfits for the wet doctor and detective. Mrs. Hudson busied herself, trying to ignore Sherlock's hateful ire. Crimson dripped from John's nose from where Sherlock's wild fist had nailed the center of his face. Sherlock kicked and punched, screamed and spat, as he thrashed against John's unwavering form. It was a solid eighteen minutes before the young genius tuckered himself out, chin falling to his chest, fresh, hoarse wails of defeat sounding from his tortured throat. His shivering renewed with vigor as the adrenaline left his system.

After Sherlock became submissive again, John helped get him changed into dry pajamas, and then went to change himself. Mrs. Hudson pulled out an ice pack from the defrosting freezer for his now swollen nose. They all sat, gathered in the sitting room, near the roaring fire. Sherlock pointedly ignored the other three occupants around him, glaring into the burning embers, his furious demeanor covering his vulnerability.

The tension that filled the small living room could have been sliced with a knife. John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson made small talk, to break the silence, to avoid the elephant in the room. No one really knew how to deal, how to make sense, of what had occurred today.

"Do you know how long the power will be out, John?" Greg asked, damp hair sticking out in every direction.

"No. Wasn't even aware it was out, until I arrived," John responded, eyes remaining on the sulking detective close to the fire.

"Oh, well, I'm sure they'll have it turned back on before you know it," Mrs. Hudson said, always the optimistic. "Sherlock, dear, would you like a biscuit? Or maybe a lemon tart?"

Sherlock made no motion to respond, continuing to stare off into space. "Has he eaten today, Greg?" inquired John, knowing full well how difficult it was to get the detective to eat on his bad days.

"He threw his spoon into the loo this morning, he wouldn't eat anything I gave him after that. If he's eaten any of his snacks, I'm not sure," Lestrade sighed, rubbing his eyes.

John pursed his lips, eyes narrowed, "Then we might as well assume that he hasn't." The doctor rose from his seat and took the plate of treats from the table, walking over to Sherlock. He kneeled before the man, laying a hand on a bony knee and gave it a gentle squeeze. He held the plate up, "Come on Sherlock, have a snack. You know you can't resist Mrs. Hudson's lemon tarts…," enticed John, waving the heavenly sweets underneath the genius's nose.

~SH~ ~SH~ ~SH~

Baked goods were being held under his nose, sweet scents wafted into his nostrils. He gave a sniff and turned away. He wasn't interested in anything they had to offer him anymore. There was always some sort of strings attached.

"You know you can't resist Mrs. Hudson's lemon tarts." That's true, Mrs. Hudson's lemon tarts, are his favorite. Wait! Mrs. Hudson? She had been released! Hadn't she… Had she been recaptured? Was she working for the terrorists, like the rest of them?

Meekly, Sherlock turned to face John, "Mrs. Hudson?" He took in John's rapidly bruising face, with both satisfaction and remorse. He pushed back the negative emotion and smirked for a moment, before remembering Mrs. Hudson. "What have you done with Mrs. Hudson?" he inquired, hostile.

John looked back at the aged woman who he had held against her will, the woman tearfully shook her head at the doctor. The soldier turned back towards him and puffed out his cheeks, blowing out the held breath. "Nothing, Sherlock, she's fine. She sent you some treats as a get well present. She said to tell you that she misses you and loves you. She hopes that you will be feeling better soon," he lifts the plate again, "and that you'll eat."

Reluctantly, Sherlock took a lemon tart, suspicious of its hidden contents. The contrasting tastes of sweet and sour, are the best combination in Sherlock's opinion, and too soon, his delightful snack is gone. He frowns and looks down at the plate. He sneaks a glance at his three companions, to ensure he is not being watched, and snags a couple more of the delectable treats. He scarfed them down, before anyone could notice and *** them back. With a full tummy, Sherlock becomes sleepy, and he briefly wonders if there was a sedative in his food. He sets off to find a nesting place for the evening, heading down the hall and up the stairs back into 221B. He nestled under the medical bed they keep trying to get him to stay in, swaddling himself in pinched sheets and blankets. He'd try to get away again, tomorrow. For now, the enemy was on high alert and he was too tired to deal with them.

~SH~ ~SH~ ~SH~

The three coherent adults pretended to be concentrating on conversation with one another, while they watched Sherlock quickly eat one tart and then sneak and gulp down two more. Eating was a step in the right direction. The dazed expression Sherlock had turned into a haze of sleepiness. He still sat apart from them, but the tension slowly eased from his shoulders, as the nightmare he'd been stuck in was either coming to an end or calming down.

Lestrade recognized the look Sherlock had once he had eaten his fill of the lemon tarts. One would think that after consuming high sugar foods, a person would be hyper, or at least energized, but not Sherlock Holmes. As he stated often times, eating slows his mind down. Personally, the DI thought that that was because he didn't keep regular or healthy eating habits. Regardless, Sherlock was about to go search for a tight area to bed for the night, and Greg needed to know where that was. It would seem that after today's display of craziness, it would be extremely unwise to leave Sherlock unsupervised for any amount of time. The detective inspector bade goodnight to John and Mrs. Hudson and followed the uncoordinated, lanky detective to bed.

The day had been a complete failure; they had had several before it and would have plenty more before everything was back to how it should be. All they had to do was take one day at a time, and count every success, no matter how small it may seem, as a victory. The change would be gradual, painstakingly slow, but there was no doubt in anyone's mind, that it would happen. Sherlock Holmes, and his dysfunctional family, would make it back to normal someday, or as normal as they could tolerate when Sherlock was involved.


	6. Searching For Sense

Hello guys, chapter six is finally complete! Sorry it took so long, was having difficulty getting all the kinks worked out. I hope you enjoy! And yes, I will be continuing the story, clearly. I do hope you continue to review and give me ideas! I worked in some Mycroft/Sherlock moments just for a couple of reviewers :)

Thank you for my wonderful Betareader "Proud to be an X-nerd" She did a spectacular job, per usual! Love and appreciate you!

Without further ado, Subconscious Comfort...

* * *

**Searching for Sense**

Sherlock had indeed tried to escape, every day, for the past two months and four days, never in any pattern. The plans became more elaborate as time went. His last effort had ended badly. He had gone to the bathroom, under the pretense of taking a shower as instructed. He had turned the taps on high, and closed the curtain loudly. Sherlock then proceeded to enter the adjoining room that he slept in, and pulled out a tangle of sheets from his resting nest. He unveiled the glass covered exit and lifted the window open, spilling out his makeshift rope. He shimmied down the knotted bedclothes until socked feet touched concrete.

He took a moment to fully absorb his surroundings. Sherlock did a double take, a triple take. London. His brow knitted together, thoroughly confused. There was no mistaking the hustle and bustle, the chaotic beauty that was his London. There was the address plate that read 221 Baker Street. Speedy's hooked onto the apartment. Yes, he knew his home.

The sun shone brightly, illuminating the city, wherever its rays landed. The heat radiating from bright orb warmed Sherlock from the outside in. The gentle breeze swept the comforting smells and familiar odors to surround the detective. Sherlock hugged himself tightly, overpowering happiness surging through him. The embrace of home lifted his spirits like nothing else in the world ever could. But…home was more than the place; home was John, Lestrade, , and Molly. Goodness help him, even Mycroft was home. His friends had turned on him though, hadn't they?

Sherlock raised his good arm to hail for a taxi, uncaring about his present wardrobe of wrinkled slacks and button up shirt, topped with his favorite blue dressing gown. He ignored the looks people gave him as they passed by staring in apprehension of disheveled appearance and shoeless feet. Many taxis bypassed him, but it didn't take long before one braved picking him up, despite his disheveled appearance. The lack of a wallet never crossed his mind.

"Where to, mate?" the cabbie asked, staring at him in the rearview mirror.

Sherlock glanced at the clock. "Diogenes Club," he answered, scanning the confines of the car. Details sped across his mind, and the deduction flew out of his mouth before he could stop it. "Does your wife know that you're cheating on her?" He continued, not waiting on the driver to respond, "Obviously not, you've been keeping it from her, because she is ill and the raised blood pressure and increased heart rate would undoubtedly cause a heart attack and kill her. Despite your infidelity, you still love your spouse, so you take special care to hide the signs. Might I recommend you wash out the perfume scent on your collar and wipe off the lipstick residue on your cheek before you visit her in the hospital? I don't approve of adultery, but you've been getting away with it so far, and no doubt you will continue on with this dishonesty, might as well do it right and not start being sloppy."

The cab driver looked flabbergasted before turning an angry glare on the detective. The ride continued in an uncomfortable silence, allowing Sherlock to carry on with his thoughts uninterrupted. _'How long have I been in London? Have I really been in my own flat, all this time? Why did they bother to bring me home with them, if they were just going to continue the torture, the hatred?'_ Mycroft could clear all this mess up, if his brother hadn't turned on him too. He had to be aware of what had been occurring. _'Maybe he thinks I deserve it for being caught in the first place.' _

The car pulled up to the posh, men's club, and Sherlock jumped out, telling the gentleman to wait on him. "This shouldn't take long," Sherlock supplied. He bounded up the walkway, slipping by the butler and into the home away from home for his brother. Eyes never wandered over the rooms he passed through, he knew exactly where to find his target. Sure enough, Mycroft Holmes, sat, newspaper held high, in the corner of a side room, by the lit fireplace.

His padded feet didn't make a sound as he made way to his big brother, but as expected, Mycroft still lowered the paper and looked up at his approach. If Mycroft was surprise by his little brother's arrival, it didn't show. He eyed the detective with a knowing smirk. "To what do I owe this visit, brother dear?" He stood and motioned for Sherlock to follow him, where they relocated to an office made for the purpose of such visits. He gestured for Sherlock to sit, as he took his own seat, but the younger man remained on his feet. He hovered near the door, before cautiously coming to stand at the edge of the desk, closet to Mycroft, fidgeting.

Mycroft sighed with a roll of his eyes, and pushed up off his chair. He opened his arms and waited for Sherlock to come close before wrapping the young genius into his brotherly embrace. He sighed again and patted his brother's back, as if comforting his brother was an irritating inconvenience, it didn't seem to affect Sherlock one way or another. "Now, now, Sherlock, what's all this about?"

"I'm sorry," came Sherlock, voice deep and quiet. He stepped back and stared down at his feet.

"Whatever for?" asked Mycroft, lost as to why his brother, who did not apologize to anyone, would be contrite at all, much less to him.

"I'm sorry, alright? You can take me from them now," he shouted back, angry at his brother for playing with him. His older sibling continued to look confused, and it infuriated him further. '_Why does the overweight prat insist on rubbing it in, like rubbing salt in an open wound.'_ He said he was sorry, and he meant it, the punishment was supposed to end now. Apparently he was meant to suffer a bit more, by drawing the apology out.

"Sherlock, I really don't know what you're going on about. What are you apologizing for?"

Sherlock looked up at him, disbelief written across his pale features, "For getting captured!" The unspoken "idiot" was heard loud and clear. "I've learned my lesson, you can call them off…"

"Call who off?" Mycroft asked, incredulous.

"John, Lestrade, and Molly! Mrs. Hudson too, if she's in on this. Call them off!"

"Are you requesting new caregivers, Sherlock?" His brow furrowed.

Sherlock squinted, adrenaline pumped through his veins as the audacity of his brother. "Caregivers? They've drugged me, tricked me, …tortured me! Pray tell, brother mine, how is that taking 'care' of me?" The mere thoughts of his friends playing those roles, hurt him, stressed him. He reached up to tug at his messy curls.

"Sherlock, I believe you are gravely mistaken," His brother told him. "Your friends care about you, love you. Not a one of them would purposely ever harm a hair on your head."

"I said I was sorry! What more do you want from me?" Sherlock grew more agitated, paced in front of the man who held a "minor position in the British government". _He won't accept the apology. He is in on this. 'What do I do now?'_ His old motto of "Alone protects me" started playing through his thoughts, over and over, like a jingle stuck in an ordinary person's mind.

Hands grabbed hold of his shoulders, strong and unrelenting. He jerked back, tried to wrestle from the grip, but the hands remained firm, keeping him in place. "Sherlock, Locke, come back to me. Look at me," Mycroft gently brought his face towards him. "Yes, there we go."

Eyes fixed on his brother's, waiting. He'd hear his brother out; then he'd go back, back to life before John, before Lestrade, heck, even before Mrs. Hudson. It wouldn't be ideal living. It most definitely wouldn't be a happy existence, but he'd survive. His friends would be safe, happier, certainly better off without him around. He could live without them if it meant their safety and happiness. First he'd have to withdraw pounds from his trust fund.

Mycroft shook him back to attention. "Little brother, no one here has done a thing, but look after you; provided for your needs like they would a child, since your return to Baker Street." Sherlock shook his head, and struggled to break free, but Mycroft strengthened his grip. "No, listen to me, now. Your mind is deceiving you, brother mine."

Sherlock wanted to slap the smirk off right off Mycroft's ugly mug, but withheld from losing his temper. Instead, he intensified his efforts to break free. He was ready to leave now.

"Sherlock, you were treated inhumane, you're suffering still, and your mind does not know how to cope with the horrors it's been submitted to. It's tricking you into believing that your friends are your enemy. It doesn't know how to let go, so it remains where it was."

"No! You're lying…" Sherlock spat, halfheartedly.

Mycroft sighed, "Come on Sherlock, I'll take you home. I need to have a word with your minders."

Sherlock resisted the guiding hand on his lower back at first, not interested in returning to his latest imprisonment, but he was in Mycroft's territory at the moment, and once his brother had his mind set on something, that's exactly what would end up occurring. He hobbled alongside his brother, anxious of what would happen once he was back in his friends' clutches. _'Since when did I start dreading to be around John and Lestrade?'_ No one could be trusted anymore. After Mycroft left, security would be on high alert, it would take ages for him to get away again.

The cab was still waiting on the detective when the two siblings exited out of the club, a satisfied smirk pasted on the driver's mouth. _'Obviously pleased that the meter had run so much, apparently the bill would come to a substantial amount.' _He reached into his trousers for the cab fare, only to be filled with dread when his hand touched nothing more than cloth material.

~SH~ ~ SH~ ~SH~

Mycroft watched Sherlock's face crumble, knowing full well what the problem was. He sneered at the cab driver, but paid the crooked man regardless, not wanting to think about what would have been planned for his brother, had he not been here to fix the mistake. He led the slight figure to one of his own cars, and helped him get seated and buckled, before doing the same. "To 221 Baker Street," he told his chauffeur.

He kept an eye on Sherlock with his peripheral vision, knowing that if his brother knew he was being watched, it would only start a petty argument. It wouldn't appear that the man was going to be getting better any time soon, and with his recent outbursts and escapades, it was becoming increasingly clear, that his brother needed more care than what was being given.

He coaxed the young man out of the black car, and up the stairs of his flat, where Mrs. Hudson and John Watson were in a frenzy; searching for their wayward charge, no doubt. Mycroft cleared his throat, gaining their attention instantly. Sherlock fidgeted beside him, guilty, nervous.

Mrs. Hudson wanted to come to him, hug her tenant and fuss over him, scold him for scaring them all. However, after her recent encounter with the man, she was hesitant to approach. Instead she bustled into the kitchen, and started a pot of tea.

John had no such reservations. He walked over to Sherlock and took hold of him, medical eyes searching every inch of the skeletal form. Upon finding no new injuries, he began his lecture. "Have you any idea how worried we all were? I get a call from Greg, in the middle of an examination and told that my best friend had completed another vanishing act! We've been looking for all morning, Sherlock! Greg is out there scouring the whole of London, along with part of Scotland Yard, to find you! What were you thinking?"

John was beyond angry, he couldn't think straight. He woke up this morning, to another routine day: getting Sherlock out from under the desk, breakfast, shower, work, only to be called before lunch to be told his best friend was gone; again! Terror had overwhelmed him and twisted his gut all the way home. They turned the flat upside down looking for the detective, searching for any evidence that would suggest he had been coerced, kidnapped. To find sheets leading out of a window, to know they had been fooled, it was maddening. He was thankful that Sherlock hadn't gotten hurt, that Mycroft was kind enough to bring him home, but it didn't subside the irritation. Apparently, neither he, nor Lestrade would be able to work for a while. He'll have to talk to Mycroft about funds after everything was calmed down. In the meantime, "I'm going to give a call to Greg, let him know he can call off the search dogs, and come home."

Mycroft nudged his little brother from the doorway and into his chair; he took the other in front of the young man. He watched his brother fold into himself, mold into the seat. Silent tears streamed down the pale features, miserable, helpless. The politician pursed his lips, mouth set in a grim line. His mind set, he was going to help Sherlock get better, whether or not anyone liked it. He allowed time for his friends to fix this, and they failed. It was his turn, time for his methods.

~SH~ ~SH~ ~SH~

Mycroft had brought him back. His friends were obviously angry with him and he resented feeling like an admonished child. What right did they have to control him? What gave them the right to fulfill what the terrorists didn't finish? It wasn't fair! This isn't how home was supposed to be. His view wandered from an angry John, on the phone in the kitchen, to his cross brother before him, and he knew, just knew who had given his friends these rights.

Why hadn't his apologies been enough? How long would it be, until they were all satisfied? Would he have to die? Should he have just died when he had jumped? Had his planned survival been pointless? His face screwed up in despair. He loved these people. He felt things he wasn't aware he could feel, all for these individuals who had managed to break down the walls of his hardened heart.

Lestrade dashed in, and Mycroft was grateful that the man had enough sense not to rush to Sherlock. No one wanted to hear the overgrown man-child whine anymore. It had grown tiresome. Mycroft raised an eyebrow towards the out of breath DI, and with mock sincerity, apologized, "So sorry, Inspector, I should have had my assistant call one of you to let you know where you had lost my little brother."

John and Mrs. Hudson came from the kitchen, trays of tea and biscuits in their hands. They settled on the couch, and set their accommodations out. Lestrade went and flopped down beside John, grabbing a cuppa once he was settled. Tension filled the silent room.

"It has come to my attention," Mycroft began. "That Sherlock has become too much for you three to handle." He held up his hand to halt their protests and eyed his brother at his indignant noise. "No one blames you for this; it was bound to happen at some point. However, you have had ample time to sort him out, and yet he remains little better than when he was brought to you. Even if Sherlock was becoming as normal as you could have considered him before," Ignoring the younger of the siblings disgruntled, "I can hear you." Mycroft ploughed on, "Sherlock has become a hazard to have around. You have displaced your lives for him; he has threatened and almost severely injured, Mrs. Hudson…"

"I have done no such thing, you blithering irritant!" Sherlock remonstrated. "I haven't even seen her, much less have had contact with the woman." Sherlock's eyes narrowed in on Mycroft head, hatred burning a hole through him.

The British Government continued, as if he had not been interrupted, "He has made multiple attempts to escape your watch, and managed to become successful at it today. Sherlock, as I'm sure you're aware by now, climbed out his bedroom window, via tied bedclothes, and hailed a taxi, without having payment, I might add. He then proceeded to pad into Diogenes Club, looking a disgrace, without shoes even, to find me. Now, I'll admit, he did not find me out of brotherly love, but to confront me as to why I had rescued him from one pit, to place him in another." He let his last statement hang in the air, fester in their minds. His glance towards Sherlock showed the man had already exited back to his own world.

Mrs. Hudson gasped, her hand finding way to her gaping mouth, eyes filling with unshed tears. John set statue still, eyes unfocused, lips pursed in frustration. Greg switched from glaring daggers at Mycroft to gaze with pity at Sherlock. All three knew what was coming, and they didn't like it one bit. They would fight against it, but really, how do you fight the British Government, it was a pointless cause really.

Mycroft took out his phone, sending a brief text, before rising from his seat. "As it stands, Sherlock needs more care than what you can provide, and I intend to see that he gets it." Two men in posh, black suits arrived through the flat door, standing guard, awaiting orders.

"Wait just a minute, Mycroft! Sherlock is doing just fine, he still has plenty of moments where he's out of it, but he's been lucid a lot too." John stood and crowded into Mycroft's personal space, knowing full well what the man intended to do. "He's recovering and even you must admit that he wouldn't have improved this much being in some mental facility!"

Lestrade stood protectively in front of where Sherlock sat, feet planted, an unwavering form. "You can't take him, Mycroft. It will kill him to be placed in an institution; you'll lose every bit of progress we've made. If you could just be patient, give us more time. Maybe help us out with taking care of our work, making it so we have some vacation time," the DI tried to reason. "He needs more care, more attention, you're absolutely right; help us give it to him, rather than snatching him and putting him away somewhere."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, "You both act like you'll not see him ever again. I mean to get him help from professionals. You will still be able to visit him."

Mrs. Hudson sat, dabbing at her tear soaked eyes and cheeks, sniffling. No one noticed as a certain young genius climbed from his chair, to park himself at her feet. The landlady looked up, surprised, as her confused tenant nestled his head on her lap. She carefully placed a small hand to the back of his curls, giving a gentle pet.

"Don't snivel, Mrs. Hudson. It'll do nothing toimpede the will of Mycroft Holmes."

"Oh, Sherlock," Fresh tears spilt down wrinkled cheeks. Mrs. Hudon leant down and placed a soft kiss to dark curls, letting out a pain filled whimper of protest as the two agents pried the poor boy from her legs.

Sherlock kicked up a fuss the whole time, screaming that he didn't want to leave, he'd changed his mind. "I choose John! I don't want to go, please don't make me go! Don't let them take me; they're going to hurt me more! John, I choose to stay!"

The doctor looked away from the sorrowful sight, glaring angrily at the government official followed his people down the stairs of 221B. Silent tears made way from all their eyes, unsure of how things had managed to get to this point. No one sure as to how they were going to fix this mess.

~SH~SH~SH~

The agents shoved him, none too gently into the awaiting car, pulling onto the road before he even had time to sit up. Mycroft helped him up, allowing him to shy away and plaster himself to the car door farthest away from his brother. He was not looking forward to his imprisonment. Mycroft didn't think highly of him in the best of times, now, he was probably heading for his worst nightmare.

His mind was still too disoriented to follow every twist and turn the ride made; he wasn't sure where they were headed. He wished that he had had time to grab his hidden stashes of food, and items of sentiment that he'd 'collected'.

A bottle of water entered his peripheral vision, he turned away from it, knowing the hand that held it, did not have his best interests at heart. Fool him once, shame on them; fool him twice, shame on him. He would not be shamed for stupidity. Anything his brother gave him would be drugged. So, for now, he would refuse all food and drink.

The windows were tinted; the view was darkened and bothersome to focus on. The atmosphere was thick and tense. His insipid companions were dull. How long would this trip take? His mind would tear itself apart without something to occupy itself.

His brother sighed, and set the water against Sherlock's leg. "Must you brood? I'm doing what you wanted. You didn't like your current arrangements, so I am giving you a different one. A place where you are sure to regain yourself, if you cooperate, which I am sure you will."

Sherlock curled his lip, and wrapped his arms around his knees. Not bothering to respond, he calculated the probability of survival from jumping from a speeding car. As if his thoughts were heard aloud, the doors locked. This was going to be a long drive.

~SH~SH~SH~

Mycroft rolled his eyes at Sherlock's dramatics. With a sigh he pulled out his laptop and switched on a movie, a children's movie he recalled his little brother pestering him to watch alongside him multiple times, sometimes in a day. He set it on his lap and turned it to face the sulking man. With his growing boredom, it didn't take long for Sherlock's attention to be gained.

The institution he had chosen was a private, highly successful, mental facility. It was located just outside of London, not far from where Mycroft lived. He would be able to visit whenever he got the chance without a problem.

When they arrived at the establishment, Sherlock got out of his own free will; however, when his eyes skimmed over the building, the tantrum began, full force. It had been expected, and Mycroft had his men manhandle his brother inside. The politician had his assistant call ahead to make the situation known. They were ushered into a large room that had been prepared for his brother.

Sherlock did not calm, even after placed on his new sleep stead and movie turned back on. He screamed and sobbed, spewed his ire at his brother. "I hate you! I hate you! Leave me; I never want to see you again! I want John!" Eventually the man had worked himself up so much that they restrained him, dissolving his mental state further. His mantra of "I want John," growing louder and wilder.

Mycroft sat on the side of Sherlock's mattress, brushing an errant curl out his brother's face. He grabbed a tissue off the nearby nightstand and dabbed at the wet cheeks. Sherlock spat and bit at him, changing from an angry child to a captured, wild animal. He ignored the spittle on his suit, and continued his ministrations, speaking in calm, hushed tones, to the senseless creature.

Sherlock writhed on the bed, tugging his restrained limbs, hard. His wrists and ankles grew an angry shade of red, tiny ringlets of blood absorbed into the cloth constraints. Mycroft, worried, called for a nurse. The attendant called for backup and once Sherlock's arm was held still, she plunged a needle into the waiting vein. With the sedative coursing through his system, his brother's taut form relaxed, easing him into a pliant state. Mycroft looked away from glossy orbs, perturbed at the reminder of his brother's darker days.

This was going to help Sherlock, they all just had to give it time. It wouldn't cure him over night. He refused to feel guilty for doing what he saw best, for helping his baby brother. Once his younger sibling fell into a fitful sleep, Mycroft left him, blinking back the non-existent wetness in his eyes. He wouldn't let Sherlock fall any further into himself; he wouldn't let anything stand in the way of Sherlock's recovery. It was essential that Sherlock Holmes recovered.

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I hope you enjoyed it, and that it was worth your wait! Feedback is appreciated. Until next time...


	7. The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men

**A/N:** Hope you guys like it! Working on ch8 now, but am having difficulty. I also have less time due to school and finals approaching.

I am sad to say I see the story coming to an end around chapter 10. I don't want it to, but I've run out of plot ideas. There is only so much angst you guys can take, I'm sure lol. If you have ideas, I'm open to suggestions. In the mean time, I hope you enjoy chapter 7. I'll be pasting a betaed version, when I get the copy.

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**The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men**

Sherlock's health continued to visibly decline during his stay in psychiatric care. Through the course of the first month or so, the ill detective had tantrums non-stop, being forcefully calmed with medication. He became a danger to the staff, a danger to Mycroft, and finally a danger to himself. During his tirades he would lash out on those who came to his aid, and would spit and snarl out at his brother when he visited. If Mycroft dared to try and touch the younger, Sherlock would claw or bite him. Sherlock had spent the last couple months drugged and restrained, tucked safely away in the depths of his mind palace.

After a while, restraints and sedation were no longer necessary. Sherlock stopped fighting, stopped caring, stopped acknowledging human presence. He reverted into himself permanently, eyes distant, unfocused. The skeletal genius refused to eat, refused to drink; the doctors had immediately ordered feeding tubes and IVs to supplement the nutrients and fluid, to keep their patient alive.

Due to Sherlock's erratic and volatile behavior, he was not permitted visitors outside of Mycroft, and the more Sherlock deteriorated, the less Mycroft came to see him. The older sibling couldn't bear to see his brother's lifeless form day in and day out; unable to admit he was wrong, he left the faculty to do their job, in denial at its futility. Hope for the genius detective was slipping through their grasps.

Not a day went by for John or Lestrade that they did not try to contact Mycroft, fraught for information, desperate to see their friend. All their efforts went in vain, as they never got past secretaries, assistants, or voicemail. They tried carrying on with their lives as usual, but they were distracted with worry, uninterested with their everyday routines. Every once in a while, men in pressed, black suits, agents, would come by, rifle through the flats possessions and take some of Sherlock's items; every time, they remained tight-lipped.

Lestrade moved back into his own house, barely seeing the Baker Street's occupants. Mrs. Hudson went back to fussing over John or the state of the apartment. It was almost as if Sherlock had not miraculously survived, as if he was dead, but he wasn't, he had returned to them. He was battered and bruised, a bit cracked and chipped around the edges, but he was alive, and needed their help. He needed help and they were unable to provide it for him all because of the over-controlling, arrogant, know-it-all, British Government. It was infuriating! More than anything, John wanted to punch the permanent, egotistical smirk off the git's face.

The doctor understood that Mycroft cared for Sherlock, and there was no doubt that he wanted his little brother to get well, but this was all wrong. Granted, Sherlock did seek him out, upset about his placement, confused and angry, but the man-child had pleaded with his brother in the end, to not go through with alternative plan, Mycroft's "solution". Adding insult to injury, Mycroft had promised to keep them informed, that Sherlock was not being snatched away from them, simply moved, and he had lied.

~SH~SH~

Mycroft stood in the observation area, connected to his brother's room. Sherlock was motionless, on his side, facing the grayish wall, in the bed. His little brother was dying; there was no other word for it. It was similar to the study on infants in orphanages he had read about. If an infant was left alone, never handled or shown affection, it would face the wall and give up on life. Not immediately of course, but it would happen nonetheless. The older Holmes' proper appearance disguised how haggard he was. As if his job was not stressful enough, Sherlock had to go and become a vegetable to make it worse. '_Sounds about right, Sherlock has always enjoyed being the bane of my existence._' He rolled his eyes at the thought and sighed heavily as he fell back to watching the prone figure on the detestable mattress. It was undecided at the moment whether the problem lay with the faculty of the establishment, or if enough time had just not been given to solve the problem, but what was clear, was that Sherlock was not getting better. Mycroft puckered his lips in distaste, he hated not knowing.

The government official glanced over his shoulder, at his assistant behind him, "Request that Sherlock be placed under a different psychiatrist, my dear. Make sure whoever it is, is the best, please."

The woman's fingers flew over her mobile; she nodded and left, never glancing up at her boss. Mycroft turned back to view his sibling. The dead, distant eyes, reminded him of Sherlock's darker days, dabbling in different types of drugs; looking for relief, pleasure, anything that would help him forget, make him happy. The young man had overdosed three times, before Lestrade had come along and got him clean. He was fairly certain, one of those time had been purposeful, a suicide attempt. However, his little brother reluctantly gave it all up, to work under the detective inspector, and while Mycroft was sure there had been plenty of times of temptation to return to his old ways, he had remained clean.

The despondent sulk was also similar to the time Redbeard, Sherlock's mutt, had to be put down. Mycroft had never seen Sherlock happier as when their parents had given the young child a pet, a friend of his own. They worried, constantly, much like Mycroft does today, about their youngest child's unsociable ways and eccentric habits. The boy was teased and bullied relentlessly, every day. His cold demeanor covered his loneliness, as he tried desperately to fool himself into thinking that he didn't need or want anyone anyway, but mummy and daddy knew. So one day, when the boys had come home, to their parents waiting on the porch, an Irish Setter at their feet, Sherlock ran and smashed his little face into red fur, exclaiming loudly that the dog liked him best and that Mycroft's girth and face scared the critter. The puppy took to Sherlock instantly, and Mycroft didn't mind, it meant that he didn't have to take care of it as much, and that Sherlock wouldn't interrupt his studies to play pirates as often.

An unpleasant feeling settled in his stomach, regret perhaps? He did wish he had not resented Sherlock's pestering as much, taken the time to enjoy the innocence his brother once held. He had been replaced with an animal, and he hadn't been interrupted any less, Captain Sherlock and his 'first mate' Redbeard harassed him every moment they could get away him, having him hunt his own textbooks or snacks as a treasure. He had sometimes enjoyed it.

As the time went, Sherlock and Redbeard became inseparable; it was difficult to get the child to understand that dogs did not go to school. Stupid boy, had gone to school for ages, never saw an animal there, and all of a sudden wondered why he couldn't take his pet. It hadn't become known to later on, that Sherlock simply wanted to show off that, even a 'freak' like him could get a friend. The little one was proud of his friend and Redbeard was protective of his young master.

Mycroft had tried to warn Sherlock, at an early age, that caring was not an advantage, and he had almost succeeded, before their parents had brought a puppy home. Now Sherlock had an escape from the bullies, a protector from the darkness or anything that sought the child harm. That guardian role had been the dog's demise. Sherlock had been eleven at the time, and per routine, had taken Redbeard for a walk/adventure. A hateful bunch of students from his classes surrounded the two, making the dog uneasy at what he perceived a threat. When one of the unruly brats pushed his brother down, the dog had latched onto the child's leg. Sherlock had gotten Redbeard to let go and they came straight home, but the damage had been done. The police had come a few short hours later and had taken Sherlock's only friend away, claiming the animal was a menace, a danger. No one cared what had really happened. Sherlock had shut himself up in his room for weeks, barely eating, not bothering to speak, and hot streams became a constant on ghostly cheeks.

Mycroft grimaced at the memory, well, it had started off happy. He missed seeing Sherlock happy and mostly carefree. However, it did not do any good to dwell in the past, it wouldn't help them now. Perhaps he could get a therapy dog to come visit his little brother; it might bring some comfort to him at least, even if it doesn't bring the man back out of his shell.

~SH~SH~SH~

What was the point in all this? He can't remember the last time someone touched him with care, with love. All sensations hurt. 'Why can't I just die?' There's an odd pressure in his left nostril, they've place something in his nose to irritate him, try and finish driving him out of his mind. An unexpected method, but if lights, sound, and a variety of chaotic tries, did not succeed, why not give weird ones a go. His stomach stays strangely full, nausea is a constant friend. He can't get their substances out of him. Every effort made to move, to breathe, to live, is foiled, constricted by a number of restraints.

He doesn't sleep, but he isn't awake. The blissful in-between is just as frightening though. He hears voices, but he can't identify them. They don't sound threatening, but that doesn't mean anything. John and Greg had him fooled pretty well. He mentally flinches against all touch, but his body refuses to go through with jerks away. His transport is no longer his own, it doesn't listen to his command, not even to completely let go, instead of holding on, giving in, becoming pliant. This is exactly how he did not want to live, he left it in his will, but his wishes never mattered to begin with. His 'friends' only humored him, to get the best reactions out of him later. How cruel.

John's here, so is Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, they're laughing at him, enjoying his pain, his humiliation. Molly and Mycroft soon join in. His parents look down at him scornfully. "We never wanted you, but no one would take you; we had no choice, but to keep you. You're such a disappointment! Why couldn't you be more like Mycroft?"

Molly's adoring brown eyes screwed up in contempt, "Who could ever love a freak like you?" The warmth in her face gone, in place was a cold hatred. "You always say such horrible things! How does it feel to finally hear the truth yourself?"

Mycroft leaned down low, towering over the incapacitated man. "You're such a stupid little boy. I'm the smart one. You're such a pain to deal with. It always falls to me to get you out of your messes. I should just let you wallow in your misery and allow you to learn your own lessons. Bailing you out is tiresome and a waste of perfectly good time."

Hot coals littered his body; water was poured generously over his heated body. He could almost see the steam rising. Sherlock tried in vain to kick the blankets away from his overly warm self. The ankle restraints allowed little movement, no more than a twitch. They were cooking him! He didn't think Mycroft knew cannibals…his hand reached further than what he thought. Was this planned out? Why else would Mycroft need cannibals on his side? He cried out, but his throat was scratchy, mouth full of cotton balls, nothing came out. He was helpless, like a mute infant needing to be fed or changed, abandoned due to its abnormalities; no one to hear him, no one to care to check.

He wanted to die; he didn't want to suffer anymore! This was new, this was creative, clever even; had they really run out of ways amuse themselves with his torment? Could they not find a kinder way to kill him? Still, a part of him wished he could study the methods, how his body reacted, and the effects of every variable. Too bad he'd have to feel it, his mind wouldn't be able to function rationally for much longer under this amount of heat; he'd forget his interest.

He turned his head slightly and his eyes met with John's bright blues. "I tried to care about you, Sherlock. I really did, but you left me alone, to grieve, while you were off gallivanting across the continent, solving mysteries and taking down criminals. What kind of friends does that?"

"No, no John, I didn't want to leave you," Sherlock pleaded, "I wasn't having fun, John, please believe me!"

"We came after you, Sherlock, we tried to help you," Greg joined in, feigned anguish displaying across aged features. "We got captured, because of you. It's your entire fault. You forced yourself on me, during a time I should have been able to experience the high of a promotion, to help you with your drug problem. I was repulsed by you. The only thing you're good for is putting puzzle pieces together faster than the rest of us."

There barrage of truths physically hurt. His cheeks stung, his head throbbed, his heart was being squeezed relentlessly, erratic pumping hammering against his ribs. He couldn't breathe! His body refused to listen to him refused to fight; even it knew they were right. He deserved this.

Mrs. Hudson, his second mother, the woman he allowed to fuss over him without much issue. She refused to look at him, he leaned over, twisting his cranium to catch her gaze, but her eyes were closed. She was silently rejecting him, unable to tell him, unable to vocally hurt him. The poor woman was too kind, too gentle, for her own good. It didn't hurt any less.

Cold! Ice water rained down on him, pelting his bare, searing skin. They must be starved to cool him so fast after cooking, did they realize he was still aware? He forced his hand to rise and bat them away, but they didn't seem to take notice. He couldn't see, it was too dark, he couldn't hear, the ringing was too loud, but he could feel, he could cry out. He had to alert them, they wouldn't eat something alive! He tilted his heavy head toward the rain, allowing it to moisten the cotton in his mouth, his throat.

A stabbing pain shot through his arm, and he screamed. Knives poked and prodded all his limbs, his torso, his head. No, no, no, no. Not like this.

~SH~SH~SH~

Nurses dabbed at the sweat damp face of their patient, his fever had spike to a worrying level, a war raging in the weary body. The weak form did little more than spasm against the towel fussing over him and his blankets. Tears slipped haphazardly down ghostly pale cheeks as the sickly man muttered, agitated, in his half-conscious state.

Dulled eyes, glazed over with fever turned to look upon her, she smiled pitifully at him. "Hello, love," she greeted, voice full of warmth, in hopes that it would reach his hazy mind. "We'll get you to feeling better in no time, don't you worry about a thing."

She reached over and pressed the call button, alerting her fellow co-workers of her need for assistance. Together they worked the limp detective into the bathroom and steadied him into the bathtub. One nurse tested the water and promptly turned on the showerhead, spraying them all with lukewarm water. The ill genius tried in vain to fight off his helpers, but they held him still, giving gentle touches and pats to comfort as they lowered the raging heat radiating off him.

The chilling liquid renewed his energy and Sherlock raised his hands to swat his aid away, flailing limbs barely catching even one of them. He raised his head, mouth wide open, allowing the shower to moisten his, no doubt, dry cottony mouth. His nurse brushed a hand across his soaked forehead, swiping drenched curls out of the way to feel his freshly cooled skin. They quickly applied an intravenous sedative, to calm the frantic soul, and worked together to get him back to his room, dried and clothed the man, and situated him back in bed. She was grateful that the cleaning crew had thought to come through and replace the sheets and straighten things up again. Once her patient was settled down, the nurse left as quiet as she had entered.

~SH~SH~SH~

The crooked knocker on the familiar black door mocked him as he stood before it. Compulsively he reached up to straighten it, but faltered when his fingers touched the cold metal. Mycroft was not an emotional man, preferring cold logic and reason to feelings, but his insides knotted inside when he thought about the people he came to see today. He wasn't nervous, he had no reason to be, but he did dread having to deal with his brother's dysfunctional family, they were overly emotional, irrational, and in some instances, the doctor could become violent, and Mycroft didn't appreciate not being able to anticipate when that would occur. He had side-stepped, rerouted, and ignored all calls John and Lestrade had sent him, and he knew from experience that this was not going to be an easy or pleasant conversation.

"Thinking about weaseling out and blowing us off again?" a firm hand grasped Mycroft's shoulder roughly, squeezing hard. The voice angry, hostile, but the one it belonged to was not an immediate threat.

Mycroft smiled to placate the detective inspector before turning toward him as much as the grip would allow. "Of course not, Inspector; I have never been one to cower. I merely allowed myself to get lost in inconsequential thoughts."

The two made their way into the flat, Lestrade's secure grip ensuring that Mycroft didn't dither on the way up. The doctor and Mrs. Hudson was sat on the sitting room couch, drinking tea and chatting away, if Mycroft didn't know any better, he would say that the group of three had been expecting him. The conversation halted when Greg allowed the door to languidly open and hit the wall. The noise reverberated throughout the room, slicing through the fresh tension coiling and weaving itself within the individuals.

"Look what I found sniffing at the door." Lestrade released the politician, but stayed steadfastly planted in front of the exit way. His glare never wavered, agitation rolled off him in waves. He folded his arms across his chest and waited, hoping he was prepared for whatever news they were about to receive.

Mrs. Hudson stayed seated, composed, but her twiddling hands gave way to her anxiety, her anger. John, however, stood and crossed the room, not quite crowding into Mycroft's personal space, but not outside of it either. His body vibrated with fury, his hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. _'Clearly struggling to refrain from slamming into my face_,' Mycroft noted, grateful for the blogger's restraint, it wouldn't do to show up at his next meeting with a broken nose and a swollen eye.

"You, start explaining," he ordered through gritted teeth. He added a "Now!" in his most commanding 'Captain Watson' voice when Mycroft hesitated to respond.

Mycroft grimaced, but began as prompted. "To avoid being trite, I shall keep this short. Sherlock was not improving from you care, so I took measures that I thought would ensure his wellbeing, at a much quicker rate than was currently being applied. As expected, for any course of action when dealing with such sensitive matters, it did not take right away. Sherlock fought it, despite his previous askance. I did not want to initiate a discussion for which I did not hold any information to give you. As it stands, Sherlock's recovery is still not proceeding as quickly or as smoothly as I had hoped."

John pursed his lips, nodding absentmindedly as he took it all in. "So, let me get this straight. You took your brother, against his will in the end, and against everyone's better judgment, to speed up a healing process so it would fit your schedule, and lied to us about keeping us in the loop and visitation." He nodded again.

"Well, how is he doing at the moment?" Mrs. Hudson's quiet voice inquired. "Mycroft Holmes, if you've undone all our hard work for such a selfish desire, I may just call your mother and let her deal with you," the landlady admonished him without raising her voice; it stung all the more.

"When I last visited him he had deteriorated significantly. He had become violent, but now it is as if he's just given up and is willing his last breath away. He's become catatonic, unwilling to accept any comfort, any aid," Mycroft sighed. He would never admit defeat to anyone, but John knew a desperate man and a silent cry for help from anywhere. It didn't hurt that he spoke 'Holmesian' so well either.

"Mycroft, Sherlock needs his 'family'. I think you should let us see him," John reasoned. "You know that he needs our support, now more than ever. You keeping him locked away from the world like this will kill him."

"Sherlock has become increasingly volatile to all persons, including those he knows, Dr. Watson. What makes you think that he won't hesitate to lash out at you?" Mycroft sneered.

"Maybe we could try and bring him something that might lift his spirits," Lestrade suggested, changing the topic.

"What do you have in mind Inspector?" Mycroft asked, brow raised, a smirk back in place.

"You're his brother, you should know better than anyone what would make him content."

"I should, but he and I were never that close."

"What about his violin?" offered Mrs. Hudson. "He's always playing his violin when he's having one of his moods. It usually cheers him up."

"That's not a bad idea," John agreed. "I can't think of anything legal that soothes him better.

"I would not risk such a valuable asset, to Sherlock's unpredictability. If any harm should come to his precious instrument, he would be most horrid, and that is putting it mildly," scoffed Mycroft, rolling his eyes. "I was thinking something along the lines of a therapy animal. Sherlock had a dog once, one that he cherished, as much as he cherishes anything really. My only concern with that would be he would most likely wish to keep the pet afterwards and we all know how that would go. My brother can barely care for himself, the animal would probably die, and then we would have an even bigger strop to deal with. Sherlock really is impossible to deal with."

John thought for a moment before grinning, "I think I may have a solution for that problem. Let me see if I can work something out. In the meantime, get us access to Sherlock, and start keeping us up to date when we aren't there. Next time, I may not hold back from marring your presentable face." He glared at the older man before he slipped to the kitchen to make a call, leaving Greg and Mrs. Hudson to gather the details. They would be seeing Sherlock tomorrow or the next day, if all went according to plan.

~SH~SH~SH~

As the fever dissipated, Sherlock found his heavy limbs and discombobulated brain more under his control. Men and women dressed in uniforms with a variety of colored and cartooned tops came and went. Sherlock refused to cooperate with any of them. He wouldn't let them replace his tubes, help him to the toilet, or allow the foreign hands to pet and console, or medicate and soothe. If they wanted to control him they should have left him.

His noncompliance was costing him greatly. He was hungry, and he really needed to use the facilities. His previous assistants, or caregivers, he was unsure as how to label them, had been replaced by a snarky, impatient minder. He easily deduced that the large man was angry at his finance for putting their wedding off…again. The pale ring on his finger would become raw if he didn't stop rubbing it so fiercely.

He hadn't seen him for hours, after the man had given up on trying to get him to eat and to the bathroom. The nurse had sneered something at him, something about "holding it 'til he felt good and ready to come back and tend to him again". Sherlock really hoped that would be soon, he regretted being so stubborn now. His bladder was pulsing, and every heartbeat seemed to shudder its way down to the storage site for urine, making it increasingly more difficult to not wet himself. He wasn't a child though, and he had ignored his transport for much longer than this. Still, they hadn't managed to restrain him again, maybe he could make his way to the restroom himself…he could get water from the sink while he was there too. Mind made up, Sherlock progressively managed to sit up, painstakingly slow, easing his legs over the side of the bed. He heaved with the effort it took, and waited until he had calmed before letting his feet touch the cold tiles. It hurt, but he managed to put weight on his unused limbs, even brief as it was. His only thought as his legs gave out was, "_Mistake!_"

~SH~SH~SH~

Patrick Hayden wasn't a bad man, he wasn't really violent, didn't often lose his temper, but sometimes, he would just have days where everything would weigh down on him and he just couldn't take anymore. Today was one of those days. His fiancé postponed their wedding a third time, for whatever reason. He suspected she was cheating on him and just leeched off his money. Bill collectors were constantly breathing down his neck, calling at all hours of the day; and to top it all off, his 'top priority' patient, apparently a sibling of someone important, was being exceedingly difficult.

It had been three hour since he had last dealt with the man, and his mood hadn't improved any, if anything it was worse. Honestly, if the guy wasn't willing to cooperate and help himself there was no point in him being here or nurses wasting their time on him. There were plenty of other patients that wanted help or couldn't honestly help themselves. It was made worse by the fact that his co-workers kept harping on how important it was that his patient get the proper care and respect, as if he didn't know how to do his job! His patient was no more special than his grandmother, and he and his family were hard pressed to get her in anywhere, must less somewhere really nice.

The thoughts continued to twist and harbor deep into his mind as he followed the route back to Sherlock's room. A tray of fresh food in hand, scorn not quite faded from his façade, he entered the silent room. The room was dark, no one had bothered to flip the light switch to turn on a lamp for a man who did little more than stare at a wall all day. Whimpers and quiet sobs danced across sensitive ears, and for a brief moment, Patrick felt remorse for his hateful judgments. His patient seemed to be in the clutches of a nightmare, and whatever caused him to retreat into himself, probably wasn't pleasant.

The guilt ate away at him briefly, before he turned the overhead on. The room now illuminated with the fluorescent bulb on the ceiling, the nurse's eyes found his patient on the floor, tangled in sodden sheets, visibly distraught. The pathetic form was wrapped around himself, rocking methodically as muffled cries escaped chaffed lips. The saturated sheets, merely damp now, tangled in a mess of limbs. The odor permeating the air had the male nurse curling his lip in distaste.

~SH~SH~SH~

Pitiful, cautious eyes found hardened contemptuous orbs. "What the heck have you done? Did you wet yourself, like a baby?" the jeer caused Sherlock to flinch, as if an animal had snapped at him. The mocking laugh that followed renewed moisture on his face. He hid his face in shame, burying his head as far as his back would allow, in between his knees.

Harsh fingers grabbed the nape of his neck, another hand grabbed his arm. He was painfully hauled up, losing balance with the mesh of sheets around his legs. He lost his balance, but the grip never slackened, keeping him partially upright, as gravity pulled him down. He was being dragged, panic swelled deep within him as the shame was pushed back. He urged his arms to fight, flailing about to hit his target. His legs and feet still entwined, useless, worked against him.

"Please, please! I'm sorry. It was an accident!" It really had been, it had already been difficult to hold it after so long, but after his legs had collapsed out from under him, the sudden surprise and impact had instantly caused his bladder to release. It had been beyond his control. When his arm and fist met flesh, the fingers dung in deeper into his skin. Sherlock gasped in pain, but continued to squirm.

The struggle couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds before he was being flung away, landing hard on the cold tiles. His minder stooped low to face him, as he tried to scramble away, shoving the rest of the sheets in with him. In? His back touched wall, he frantically searched his new surroundings, three walls, and an opening. The exit blocked by his tormenter.

Eyes blown wide, heart rate increased, lungs tight and clogged, he was helpless to stop from being trapped. The man continued to sneer and mock him, laughing cruelly. He pleaded, apologized, begged some more, but it was all for naught. The man before, squatting to eye level, reveled in the power he held.

"I think the little one needs a time out. Maybe then you'll learn to cooperate and stop causing trouble. With that, the door was sealed and darkness engulfed the room and the soul trapped inside.

* * *

**A/N:** I am sad to say I see the story coming to an end around chapter 10. I don't want it to, but I've run out of plot ideas. There is only so much angst you guys can take, I'm sure lol. If you have ideas, I'm open to suggestions. In the mean time, I hope you enjoy chapter 7. I'll be pasting a betaed version, when I get the copy.


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